What Better Time To Remember?
by Sandilynn Petersen
Summary: Christmas Eve is a time for being together, sharing in the seasonal joy and maybe opening a present or two. So why does the gift Face opens from Murdock squelch his Christmas spirit? A sequel to 'Morale' but that story doesn't need to be read first.
1. Chapter 1

What Better Time To Remember?

Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.

Face pushed himself from the kitchen table and groaned contentedly. "Anyone else feel like parking themselves on the sofa and taking a long nap? Because if no one else does, I think I _will_."

_God, I hope nobody claims that couch before I do! I'm not joking about how full I am. _

Hannibal scraped his chair back and extracted a cigar from his shirt pocket. Raising his eyebrows at the Lieutenant, he smiled when Face removed his lighter from his pants pocket and lit the tip for the older man. "Thanks, Face." He took in a puff and blew it out slowly, sighing as he did. "A good cigar should always cap off a perfect meal. I do believe our cook outdid himself this year. Murdock, you deserve either a medal of honor or a round of applause for this spread."

Face had to agree. He peeked at his friend and saw the twinkle in Murdock's eyes and slight blush in his cheeks.

_Way to go, buddy. You deserve all that praise. I know exactly how much trouble you went to. Sending a letter to B. A.'s mother and buying all that food, then cooking yesterday and today. You haven't relaxed for two full days. And I wonder how much sleep you've gotten. _

"Yeah, buddy, you really did outdo yourself." The Lieutenant echoed Hannibal's sentiments.

The pilot's face lit up with a lopsided grin as he removed dirty plates and silverware from the table.

He paused when he got to B. A. and eyed him with mischievous uncertainty. "Ya gonna have fourths, Big Guy? Or are ya gonna save room for pie? Christmas Eve comes but once a year 'n' I can' guarantee a feast like this every time you guys break me outta th' VA."

The Sergeant speared another slice of ham from the roasting pan in the center of the table. "Hafta say ya did good, fool. It's _almost_ like Momma used ta make. But no one can outdo Momma an' the spread she'd put out on Christmas Day."

He was so focused on drizzling warmed homemade raisin glaze on his ham that he didn't notice the Captain's grin fade away in disappointment. Both Face and Hannibal did.

It was a crestfallen look quickly hidden as the pilot turned away with a short stack of serving dishes and dirty plates. Walking briskly to the sink, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his red plaid flannel shirt and rolled up his sleeves with quick jerking movements. In a strained low voice he said, "I was kinda hopin' I made it seem a bit more like home t' ya, Big Guy. I knew ya miss bein' there 'n' spendin' th' holiday with 'er."

Hannibal shot B. A. a warning glance, one that went unheeded because the big man was still forking food into his mouth.

Face surveyed the unaware Sergeant, his frowning CO and the dejected man at the sink. All he could see of Murdock to know his mood was the slumped shoulders and bowed head.

_Guess I'd better go and do some damage control. B. A. meant nothing by what he said. _

"You aren't going to do those dishes all alone, are you? I'll help you if you give me about a half hour to digest my food." The Lieutenant moved over to the sink and clapped a hand on Murdock's back. "What about it, buddy?"

"That's alright, Faceman. Best t' get 'em b'fore the food hardens on 'em." In a subdued tone, he muttered, "Momma sent me recipes t' all o' B. A.'s fav'rites. I _know_ I didn't miss any ingredients."

Face whispered back, "Do you see him slowing down or pushing any of it to the side? I think you did just fine. Don't worry about it."

"I _get_ that. I was hopin' I made his Christmas better." Murdock meditatively swiped the dishrag across a plate, rinsed and placed the plate in the dish drainer. "But I guess that's th' best I'll ever get from 'im."

Face glanced back at the Colonel and shook his head but not so the pilot at the sink would notice.

Just when Face thought the older man didn't understand his cue, the Colonel coughed gently and spoke. "I think we're all a little too full to do a lot of KP duty." Hannibal let his gaze wander to the lighted Christmas tree set up in the corner of the living room of the beach house. "Hey, Captain. Why don't you let those dishes soak for a while and we'll open some of those presents?"

The Lieutenant gave him a well-hidden thumb's-up. If anything would help Murdock forget B. A.'s unintended criticism, opening gifts would.

Turning from the sink, Murdock glanced toward the tree and smiled. "Ya mean it, Colonel? We don' hafta wait 'til Christmas mornin' like my Gramma 'n' Grampa made me wait?"

Hannibal nodded solemnly. "Lead the way, Captain. We won't open all of them. Maybe one or two apiece and leave the rest for tomorrow."

The pilot quickly dried his hands on a towel and hurried over to the tree. Hannibal and Face followed, Hannibal finding a seat in one of the armchairs and Face gratefully sinking onto the plush couch. By the time B. A. made his way to the other armchair with half of a plate of food, Murdock was on hands and knees, digging around under the tree, pushing brightly colored clumsily wrapped packages aside, looking for something.

"I have one gift for each o' you I'd kinda like ya t' open t'night. If that's okay." He backed out carefully from under the low branches, three four-inch-square wrapped boxes in his hands. Handing one gift to each of his friends, he perched on the arm of the sofa and eagerly waited.

"What about grabbing one of _your_ gifts from under there so we can all unwrap them together?" Hannibal gestured toward the remaining presents.

"No, no. I put a lotta thought into these 'n' I jus' wanna watch when ya open them. Please?" Murdock bounced his knees up and down impatiently. Face noticed his friend tucked his hands under his legs. That was a bad sign and reminded the con man to ask if Murdock had remembered to take his anti-anxiety meds lately.

_Maybe that's where he got all of the energy to cook all that food. When he gets too excited, there's more likelihood he'll get under B. A.'s skin. Not a good thing. _

None of them ever mentioned the pharmacy of pills Murdock took to regulate his behavior. He knew which he needed and which of them he only pretended to take while under his doctors' care. The pilot had shown and explained them all to Hannibal and Face once so they would know. There was a list and schedule in his duffel bag if any of them needed it.

_But Christmas brings out the kid in my buddy and maybe that's all it is. B. A. has yet to get so irritated that he hangs Murdock on the top of the Christmas tree. _

Face shrugged and started to tear away the shiny bright blue paper.

"In my family, we always had to guess what was in the box before we opened it. Of course, that was when I was a kid. No guess, no gift. That was the rule." Hannibal gently shook the small package, holding it close to his ear. "Let me see. It sounds like it slides back and forth in there but it isn't very heavy. It can't be a cigar. The box is too small, even for a cigarillo."

"Nope." Murdock's smile widened. "Now you, Faceman. Try 'n' guess."

All of the talk of family traditions made the Lieutenant somewhat uncomfortable. What Christmas tradition did he have to remember? He shifted the box in his fingers, reflecting on the thought. Looking up, he noted Murdock watching him, a hint of understanding in his expression.

_Alright already. I'll play along just for you, buddy. _

Face took Hannibal's lead. Part of the wrapping paper was already torn away and as he shook the box, he spotted the word 'silver' on the brown pasteboard.

_Cufflinks, maybe? A tie pin? It's obviously some kind of clothing accessory. I won't spoil it for the other guys but if we all have the same gift, I'm afraid it'll be wasted on B. A. _

He gave Murdock his most quizzical look. "I don't know. Is it Miss December? Or maybe her sister?"

The pilot smirked. "Tried t' get her but she ain' as flexible as she looks in those _Playboy _photo shoots. Wouldn' fit in th' box. Ya wanna try 'gain?"

Face waved his hand and glanced toward the Sergeant. "I'll pass. Let B. A. guess."

From the expression on B. A.'s face, the con man could tell the guessing game didn't appeal to him.

_Why don't you just once humor Murdock? Stop being such an angry mudsucker. _

One look from Hannibal and the big mechanic's low growl stopped. "Well, it ain' a socket wrench ta replace the one ya used ta stir paint with so I give up."

This time the Sergeant's comment didn't remove Murdock's smile. "Good try but it ain' what's in this box. Maybe it's in one o' th' others?" He paused and said more seriously, "'N' I thought that was somethin' ya wasn't holdin' 'gainst me anymore. I reached for th' first thing I could find when we were paintin' th' garage. 'N' if ya r'member, I tried t' clean it up."

B. A. snorted but averted his gaze to the gift in his hands to avoid the other man's hurt expression.

The Lieutenant took in a calming breath. He wished the others would do the same.

"Hey guys, we should open these gifts before we all get as gray as Hannibal." Face glanced at the Colonel to see if he had taken offense.

The older man chuckled. "This kind of gray comes from keeping you boys out of trouble. But you're right, kid. We shouldn't keep Murdock waiting any longer. Let's see what you got us, Captain."

The only sound in the next few seconds was that of wrapping paper being torn and boxes being opened.

Face was the first to open his gift. Reaching into the box and pushing aside fluffy white batting, he pulled out a smaller velvety dark blue box.

_I thought so. It's got to be cuff links or a tie clasp. _

He peeked up at Murdock. The pilot's expression wasn't what Face expected. Instead of gleeful anticipation he caught a hint of sadness in the brown eyes that watched him.

Opening the jeweler's box, he frowned down at a single thin silver rectangular plate on a chain.

_A dog tag? What the hell? _

Hannibal finished reading a small folded piece of paper tucked inside the larger box and set it aside. Face noticed the Colonel's smile had faded away. Carefully lifting the chain out of the box, Hannibal examined both sides of the silver plate before hanging it around his neck and tucking it into the front of his shirt. He slowly nodded his approval as he caught Murdock's unreadable gaze. "I understand and I will, Captain."

Face peered over at B. A. to find the black man staring at an identical piece of paper in one hand and gripping a gold-plated version of the dog tag and chain in his other. Without a word the Sergeant placed the paper back in the box, unclasped the chain and reattached it around his neck on top of the other gold he wore.

Getting to his feet, he lumbered over to where the pilot perched and held out his hand. "I promise too, man." Gripping Murdock's hand in his own, he repeated himself. "I promise."

He pulled the pilot up into a bear hug, one that caught both Face and Murdock by surprise. Just as quickly B. A. released him and returned to the chair to read the piece of paper to himself again.

Without lifting the chain out of the box, Face turned the dog tag over to read the engraving on the other side.

He felt a sudden flush in his cheeks as he read the inscription out loud. "First Lieutenant Charles A. Heller, POW." Turning it over again, he read, "We will remember."

Face dropped the box with its contents like it burned his hands to hold it. He tried to form words to express the combined shock, anger and shame he felt course through his body but found himself speechless.

_What was Murdock thinking? _

He abruptly stood. Leaving the box on the floor beside the sofa he walked out of the room and toward the doors that led to the beach house deck and fresh air. He knew his friends stared at him as he did. Clumsily sliding the door shut behind him, he tried to organize his thoughts but all he could think about was the last time he saw Chuck Heller.

The evening breeze off the ocean hit him and cleared his mind for a few seconds. It was long enough for him to make his way down the steps to the sandy beach below. Once there, he staggered down the shoreline until his memories forced him to his knees.

_Too bad I didn't grab that bottle of wine as I was leaving. I could have used that about now to forget. Damn Murdock and his sentimentality! As if I needed to be reminded. _

He rolled over to sit on the sand, his knees bent, his arms folded on top of them, his forehead cushioned on his arms.

It had been a long time since he thought about Chuck Heller. Hell, he didn't realize any of them still remembered him.

_We should have. He was the only reason I wasn't recaptured by the NVA. Murdock remembered but then again he remembers too much about that war. _

"Damn him!"

He raised his head to look out across the waters. The moon's reflection was an undulating light stream on the gently rippling waves.

_How far from here is the camp where Chuck might still be held? Or did he die over there from torture and starvation? _

With those thoughts came another that through years of practice he learned to push to the deepest area of his mind.

_It should have been me. _

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a blurred figure walking toward him from the direction of the beach house.

_I didn't go far enough. I was too easy to find. _

Squinting at the man slowly trudging through the dunes, Face figured Hannibal had sent Murdock to talk to him. The Colonel was good at delegating responsibility.

_Wasn't that what got Heller recaptured? Giving me a job I couldn't handle? _

Whoever it was, he was about four yards away by now. Swiping a sleeve over his watery eyes, the con man turned his face away to scan the beach.

_Why couldn't they leave me alone and let me deal with it? _

"Mind if I sit?" The voice was accompanied by the soft thunk of something dropping on the sand beside him. Curious, he looked to find one of the unopened wine bottles and the Colonel settling in.

For several minutes neither man spoke. Hannibal stared out across the ocean, seeming content to wait for Face to say the first words.

It was damn uncomfortable knowing you were expected to give an account of your actions. Especially when you didn't quite know _how_ to explain away your actions.

Finally the Colonel picked up the bottle and fished in his pocket for something to pull the cork. Once opened, he tipped some of the contents into his mouth and swallowed, then offered the bottle to the Lieutenant.

"Want some?"

Face gripped the neck and took several gulps before handing it back. Returning his gaze to the sea, he stared morosely at the water.

They passed the bottle silently between them until it was empty. Face sighed.

"_You_ remembered Heller. _B. A._ remembered Heller. It's obvious _Murdock_ has never forgotten him." The con man twisted his head to glare at Hannibal. "And when I came back, all I wanted to _do_ was forget."

Hannibal reached to his side and sifted a handful of sand through his fingers. "You found out it isn't so easy."

"I did _fine_ until Murdock gave us those dog tags. I _managed_." He almost spat the words out. If he said it with enough ferocity he might believe it.

"Obviously not. You took the entire blame for Chuck Heller and what became of him and kept blaming yourself. But I seem to remember Captain Wilson saying you didn't have much of a choice."

The Lieutenant shook his head angrily. "You gave me a job to do, a life or death responsibility, and I failed. If I had been more careful when I was on point and not gashed my side open on that punji stick, I would have been able to locate some friendlies and get both Heller and Wilson to safety somewhere. I wouldn't have failed." The con man absently tipped the bottle of wine upside down and then furiously jammed the neck several inches into the sand.

"And if you remember correctly, we all had a part in what happened. Like Murdock said, if he hadn't crashed the chopper to begin with . . . " Face cast a sharp look at Hannibal, wondering if the Colonel meant that or not. Hannibal continued. "If Murdock hadn't provoked the guards back at the camp and gotten his knee injured . . . if Wilson hadn't gotten dysentery as bad as he did . . . if I hadn't decided to split the group up and stay behind with B. A. to take care of Murdock's infected knee . . . "

"That's a lot of if's, Colonel. It isn't right to blame Murdock or Wilson for what happened to them and you were doing what you had to so all of us had a chance to get to freedom." Face's mouth was suddenly dry. He swallowed and ran a hand through his hair.

"I made a stupid mistake, the kind a green soldier would make, and Heller paid for it. I should have watched my footing." He absently touched his side where the scar from the punji stick gash remained. "The fact is while Wilson and I hid in that rice paddy drainage trench, Heller went out to do some recon of the perimeter . . . my job . . . and got caught."

Face barely remembered peeking over the edge of the ditch and seeing the NVA soldiers beat and then march Heller away, his wrists bound behind his back. He was delirious from the infected gash in his side but a sight like that cut through the delirium and etched itself in his mind. The memory haunted both his dreams and his waking hours until he learned how to bury it.

_And it was buried . . . until tonight. _

"Murdock meant no harm in what he gave us. He didn't know you were still carrying around all that guilt. When you dropped the box and rushed out, he realized. He's already making plans to get you something else and maybe track down Heller's parents or sister and send the dog tag to them." As the Colonel finished what he was saying, Face felt his intense gaze on him.

The con man shook his head and waved his hand in dismissal. "He doesn't have to do that. I _should_ remember Heller and the sacrifice he made to protect Wilson and me. I don't know if I can bring myself to wear it but I _will_ keep it and remember." He glanced up the beach at the distant softly glowing lights of the Christmas tree in the window of the beach house. Clearing his throat, he added, "I suppose we should get back. I don't want to ruin any more of Murdock's Christmas spirit by making him wallow in guilt."

Before he could move, the Colonel spoke again. "If it's any comfort to you, I happen to _know_ Chuck Heller isn't dead."

Hannibal said the words so quietly, Face wasn't sure he heard him correctly.

"I . . . I don't understand. I was there. Those soldiers got him. They weren't known for treating recaptured POWs any nicer." Face ran a hand over his head in frustration. "There's no way he could have survived a second stay in a POW camp."

"But he did. He was released in one of those good faith moves the NVA did for propaganda purposes. They sent him home."

Face turned toward his CO in disbelief. What Hannibal said didn't make sense. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?" His thoughts turned to the silver dog tag and the engraved 'POW' on it. "Murdock still thinks Heller is over there in a prison camp. Why didn't you tell _him_?"

Hannibal's eyes turned hard. His jaw muscles twitched as he clenched his teeth. "Command decision, Lieutenant." He pulled the wine bottle from the sand before speaking again. Examining it, rolling it around in his hands, he murmured, "Do you remember what Murdock was like when we finally found him? After we escaped Fort Bragg and tracked him to the VA hospital?"

Face shuddered. If they found him a few months later, there would not have been anything but a shell of a man to find. It had taken several risky visits before Murdock recognized any of them or believed they were real and not a figment of his psychoses.

_Hell, he was almost catatonic when I paid my first visit to him in disguise. I remember he didn't speak the entire time. Just kept staring at me so vacantly I wasn't sure there was a spark of awareness in him at all. _

The Colonel's voice turned husky with emotion. "Heller was worse. He returned from Nam but not all of him returned. I had my sources find out for me if there was anything any of us could do for him. There was nothing to be done, nothing that the docs aren't doing already."

"But why not tell Murdock or me?" Face stood, suddenly wanting to move, to let out the frustration he was feeling at his CO's secrecy.

"Think about it, Lieutenant. What would Murdock's immediate reaction be?" Without waiting for a reply, he pressed on. "I'll tell you. He would want to have Heller transferred to Los Angeles to the hospital ward he was in or he would want to go to see him, to see if he could help Heller like _he_ was helped. And what about you? Wouldn't you blame yourself for his condition?"

Face decided to ignore the last two questions.

_How would I answer them anyway? _

"But wouldn't a visit from someone who knew what it was like over there in the camps, who knew him, who shared a similar experience, bring him through it?"

"There's some wounds that can't be healed that way. Murdock wouldn't be able to help," Hannibal firmly concluded. "And neither can you."

"How do you know?" Face couldn't let it go. He tightened his hands into fists and glared down at the man sitting on the sand.

"Because, kid, Heller has parents and a sister and not even seeing _them_ again has touched the surface of what he needs." Hannibal got to his feet with a slight grunt. "They're slowly making progress with him but it's taking longer than it did with Murdock. I can't begin to know what that second imprisonment was like for him if it's taken this much treatment."

Face peered at the distant beach house and asked, "Are you ever going to tell him?"

"Not unless Heller makes significant progress so a visit would help rather than hinder his recovery." The Colonel sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. "You can't make amends to Heller by trying to singlehandedly restore him to his pre-war mental state. You can't be his savior. The best we can do is remember him for the sacrifice he made and hope someday everything Chuck Heller once was, _is_ once again."

"I'm not trying to 'make amends' or be his savior." He denied Hannibal's words but in his heart he wasn't so sure. He felt his temper rise at the scrutinizing look the Colonel gave him.

"When the time is right, we'll pay Heller a visit . . . _and_ I'll explain to Murdock what I just explained to you. Until then, Murdock is _not_ to know about Heller." The older man began to trudge back along the beach.

Face had to move quickly to catch up. "It's ironic, isn't it?"

"What is?" Hannibal asked in a way that seemed to say he already knew what the Lieutenant meant.

"Chuck Heller really isn't a free man. He's trapped in his mind, in those memories." The con man reflected for a few seconds as they kept pace with each other. "He's still a POW just like Murdock was after we escaped Ferret and the other guards on the trail to the Cambodian border. Their prison is their own minds and memories."

"We aren't free either, kid. Not as long as we're wanted for the Hanoi bank job." They had reached the steps to the beach house deck. As Hannibal climbed the stairs, Face hesitated.

"Will any of us ever be free of that war?" He hadn't expected an answer. When he didn't hear another word from Hannibal, he slowly walked up the steps and into the beach house living room. He had an apology and a promise to give.


	2. Chapter 2

What Better Time To Remember?

Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.

Chapter 2

For a couple of minutes, minutes that seemed like they lasted hours, the three men in the living room stared at the doors leading out to the deck. Face's reaction was nothing that Murdock could have anticipated.

_But I shoulda. How could I of been so stupid? O' course my buddy would r'member Chuck. I shoulda r'membered why he would. _

If B. A. and Hannibal weren't there, still in shock over the con man's actions, he would have smacked himself in the head . . . hard enough to get his mind working to figure out how to make amends.

_Th' guys wouldn' understand that. They'd think I lost it. 'N' they don' need me freakin' out on 'em. _

He waited for Hannibal to say something, to take charge . . . for B. A. to tell him he was a fool to give a gift like that to Face . . . for Face to come back through those double sliding doors . . .

His heart raced in his chest. Wiping shaking hands on his khakis, he licked very dry lips and stood up.

Hannibal wasn't moving. Maybe he was thinking the same thing: that the con man would reappear after getting a little fresh air and make an excuse to go to bed early.

_'N' think t' death 'bout what happened back in Nam the las' time he saw Heller 'live. Man, what was I thinkin'? _

"I'm gonna go fin' him." He barely choked out the words. "I _gotta_ go fin' him."

He was halfway to the double doors when Hannibal stopped him. Slowly getting to his feet, the Colonel waved Murdock away. "It's best if I go and talk to him, Captain. I know what's bothering him."

"So do I, Colonel. 'N' I _never meant_ t' stir up ol' mem'ries that shoulda been left 'lone." Murdock ruefully glanced at the box on the floor where Face dropped it. "I'll get 'im somethin' else . . . maybe cufflinks 'r a tie pin . . . 'r a money clip . . . I'll figure out where Chuck's folks live in Texas 'n' I'll send _them_ th' dog tag."

He clenched his fist, resisting the urge to punch in a wall for being so stupid.

_That's somethin' B. A.'d do. Am I that outta control right now? _

It wouldn't do any good though and would just fuel the hyper-anxiety he was feeling.

_'N' I'd prob'ly end up breakin' my hand. _

His entire body trembled even as his mind raced from thought to thought like an Indy 500 driver trying to qualify for pole position. Hannibal took four steps to stand in front of him and placed a hand on each of the pilot's shoulders. Murdock tried to avoid his icy scrutiny but the Colonel gripped his shoulders a little tighter to get his attention, so tightly it made him wince.

"Listen to me, Captain."

He flinched at the words.

_It ain' takin' much t' set me off t'night. If this wasn' Hann'bal standin' here keepin' me from movin', I'd plant my fist in 'is face. Face . . . yeah . . . that's right . . . I was gonna go talk t' him . . . he shouldn' be 'lone right now . . . 'I'll be home for Christmas . . . you can count on me' . . . count on me? . . . that's a joke . . . _

Wrestling his inner voice away from the song dancing in the periphery of his mind was near impossible. His thoughts swirled like the last of the bathwater going down a drain.

_This's my mind, what's left o' it, bein' flushed down th' john with th' rest o' th' crap._

"Let me find him and talk to him first before you decide anything." The Colonel spoke in a low voice but the words were not a suggestion and Murdock knew it.

_Decide? . . . oh yeah, th' dog tag . . . _

Hannibal released his grip and clapped him on the upper back before moving toward the door. Murdock hoped the older man hadn't noticed the signs of how bad his mental state was right now. He didn't miss the look the Colonel gave B. A. and the slight head movement that told the Sergeant what he was supposed to do while Hannibal was engaged in talking to Face.

The Colonel grabbed a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and disappeared through the door. They heard his footsteps retreat across the deck and down the steps to the beach below.

"Don't let what Face did bother ya. This was a good idea. Ya did _good_, man." B. A. said it slowly, carefully, as Murdock paced back and forth. The pilot stuffed his hands in his pockets to prevent himself from shattering the glass in the door through which Face and Hannibal went.

Somewhere in his brain a voice was saying, _Th' Big Guy don' give ya praise for things that often. Ya should at least talk t' him, tell 'im where ya got th' idea from. 'Cause it wasn' you. Ya know it wasn'. _

"Wasn' all my idea," he muttered.

_There, ya stupid voice. Satisfied? _

He stopped beside the kitchen counter and glared at the black man. "'N' I don' know how good a idea it was if all it did was rip th' scabs off ol' wounds." He resumed his pacing with renewed agitation. Stooping down to pick up the jeweler's box, he snapped it shut and crammed it into a pants pocket. His hand curled into a fist around it as he walked toward the kitchen.

_Maybe I shouldn' even send it t' Chuck's folks or his sister . . . wouldn' they have th' same reaction? . . . 'I'll be home for . . .' stop it, dammit! . . . _

"Stop what, fool?" The black man scowled at him as if trying to figure out what new kind of crazy Murdock was about to unleash.

He wasn't aware he had spoken aloud.

"Nothin'!' the pilot snarled in reply, then sighed and softened his tone. "Nothin', okay?"

He stopped pacing again, letting his gaze wander over the table, food and serving dishes littering its surface.

_Ha! Brainstorm . . . gives me somethin' useful t' do . . . keeps me from hittin' somethin' . . . 'There'll be snow 'n' mistle . . . no, no, NO! . . . hey, that rhymed . . . _

Leaving the box in his pocket, he dug out a roll of plastic wrap from a kitchen drawer and started to wrap the leftovers on the table.

"Here, man, let me help ya with that."

Murdock shrugged. If the Sergeant was busy helping, he might not have difficult questions for him to answer like "Are you alright?" or "Did you take your meds today?"

_Big Guy wouldn' like th' answers. Then Hann'bal'd know, too, b'cause he wouldn' keep it t' himself . . . 'if only in my dreams . . . ' stop it! . . . focus . . . focus . . . _

They worked quietly. Few words passed between Murdock and B. A. except for an occasional "Here" when the pilot handed him something ready for the refrigerator.

When Murdock let the dishwater out to run some fresh hot water in the sink, B. A. grabbed a dish towel and stood beside him.

"Ya wanna tell me about the gift, where the idea came from?" The Sergeant was probably just trying to fill the air with anything but the sound of Murdock dumping dishes and silverware into the sink without paying much attention to breakage. "An' be careful what you're doin'. We don't need ta spend Christmas Eve stitchin' your hands up 'cause ya cut 'em on broken dishes."

Murdock ignored B. A.'s warning, mulling the Sergeant's question in his mind.

_Maybe tellin' him 'bout it'll help me focus. Course scaldin' hot water'll do th' same thing, take my min' offa what I did t' make Face angry. 'Christmas Day'll find me . . . ' _

He groaned quietly, hoping the sound of the hot water running would cover it.

B. A. stared at him, worry puckering his brow. It was the kind of look all of them got on their faces when he tiptoed too close to the knife edge of losing his grasp on reality.

_Stop lookin' at me like that . . . I got it under control . . . I do . . . _

B. A. had asked a question . . . _what was it now? Oh yeah, th' idea b'hind th' dog tag . . . _

He turned off the hot water tap and tipped more dish detergent into the sink than he needed.

_Get 'em clean . . . make 'em shine . . . 'Rudolph with your nose so . . . ' no! . . . _

The water steamed and he hesitated, his hands gripping the edge of the sink. Pain sometimes helped him focus on something other than bad memories. His team mates likely didn't know how many times he used it but Doctor Richter, his VA therapist, doctor and friend, did.

_He wouldn' be very happy with me either, skippin' my meds like I did. Jus' so I wasn' havin' flat line feelin's durin' the holidays. I wanted t' feel somethin' . . . but not this . . . _

"Ain'tcha gonna run some cold water in there before ya start?" Before he could answer, the big man reached across and turned on the tap. He sensed the Sergeant's eyes on him as he let the running water cool the scalding dish water to a better temperature.

"Oh, yeah . . . thanks, B. A. . . . " He inwardly cursed for letting the big man see that.

_But maybe he thinks I jus' forgot . . . maybe he doesn' suspect . . . _

"So where'd ya get th' idea?" B. A. reached over and shut off the tap.

_He knows what I was gonna do. _

"Idea?"

"Yeah, man. The dog tag with Heller's name on it. If it wasn't you . . . " B. A. prodded.

"Oh . . . yeah," Murdock managed to stammer.

It wasn't something he wanted to talk about now. Not when his 'brilliant' gift idea upset his best friend and brought back memories and guilt.

"Ya read th' paper in th' box, didn'tcha?" He plunged his hands into the water, grabbing the gravy tureen and dish rag. Scrubbing furiously, he avoided the Sergeant's eyes.

"All it said was it was ta honor Heller an' we should wear it 'til the Vietnamese government lets someone in ta see if there were guys left behind." B. A. watched the pilot rinse the tureen and place it in the dish drainer.

Murdock grimaced as the hot water cascaded over his hands. At least it centered his thoughts.

"I saw someone wearin' a stainless steel bracelet with a Colonel's name on it. He came in t' do some volunteer work . . . said he was a psych major from th' university . . . his dad . . . th' guy on the bracelet . . . his dad was listed MIA 'round '70 . . . " Murdock washed and rinsed a dinner plate, noting his trembling fingers and reddening hands as he propped the plate against the other dish already in the drainer.

"So he was the one that thought of it first." B. A. picked up the tureen, wiped it and set it on a part of the counter that hadn't been used for food preparation. Because of Murdock's super-zealous Christmas cooking and baking spree, there were few clean spots left.

"No . . . no, th' idea wasn' original with him either. Some big nationwide student group that called themselves VIVA . . . guess it stands for Voices in Vital America . . . started it back in '69 when we were . . . well, when we were prob'ly still in th' prison camp . . . " For a second, Murdock's mind attempted to tug him back into the fetid interrogation hut where Ferret waited to torture him for information.

_Don' go there . . . focus . . . 'I'll be home for Christmas . . . ' _

B. A. was wiping the second plate. With a frown, Murdock noticed two more plates in the drainer. He must have washed and rinsed them while he wrestled with the memory in his head.

"They still around?"

Murdock was surprised to realize that B. A. was genuinely interested in what he had to say.

_First time for everythin', I guess. _

"VIVA? No . . . th' kid tol' me they stopped makin' th' bracelets back in '76 . . . they figured there wasn' any need anymore 'cause most o' th' country'd stopped thinkin' 'bout Nam 'n' POWs 'n' MIAs . . . thing was most folks didn' wanna have reminders o' how ugly that whole war was . . . funny, ain' it?"

B. A. stopped wiping the next plate long enough to give him a strange look. "What's that?"

"Th' military ain' forgotten 'bout _you_ guys . . . you're still on th' run . . . 'n' they tucked me 'way in th' VA where I ain' visible t' remind th' outside world o' th' guys still over there 'n' what shape they might be in . . . " The pilot flicked the rag over the bowl which had held cranberry relish, then paused and gazed directly at B. A. "'N' you, me, Face . . . Hann'bal . . . we can' _ever_ forget th' war. I figured _we_ shouldn' forget someone we knew that's still over there . . . somewhere."

"How ya know he ain' dead?" The Sergeant scowled as he put the dry plates away.

_How do I know? I jus' do. Seen 'im in dreams, sayin' my name, needin' my help. 'N' Billy's tol' me. Confirmed it. But the Big Guy'd think I ain' rowin' with all my oars in th' water . . . again . . . _

"He's 'live. I jus' don' know where." Murdock shook his head as he said it. In his dreams, Chuck cowered in shadows and called the pilot's name but the shadows didn't seem like those of a prison camp. "I don' know where," he repeated softly. "Wish I did."

Deep in thought, B. A. placed another dry plate on the stack to be put away. They finished the dishes in silence, each man lost in his own reflections.


	3. Chapter 3

What Better Time To Remember?

Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.

Chapter 3

As the Sergeant put the last platter away in the cupboard and Murdock scrubbed the countertop, the pilot let his attention wander to the double doors and the moonlit ocean beyond.

Finally he broke the silence, his voice tense. "They've been gone a long time. D'ya think we oughta go out 'n' look for 'em?"

B. A. snorted. "No. An' don't start pacin' again or I'll tie ya down to a chair."

Murdock caught himself as he took a step toward the door.

B. A. said don't do it but pacing was better than sitting down and waiting. Pacing was _doing_ something, even if it wasn't as constructive as washing the dishes or searching for his best friend and his CO. He felt the involuntary tremors begin again in his hands and tucked them back in his pockets. The fabric rubbed against the reddened raw skin and hurt, reminding him to focus.

The Sergeant grumbled as he went to sit down in the armchair. "You know it takes time ta drain a bottle even if it _is_ Hannibal and Faceman drainin' it. Just sit down, fool, an' they'll show up."

Murdock strolled over to the Christmas tree, fisting his hand around the box in his pocket again. He knew B. A. was watching to make sure he wasn't about to do something stupid.

_Too late, Big Guy. Already did it. Sure hope Hann'bal was able t' talk t' Face. Woulda been better if I _had_ got Miss December here t' be Face's Christmas gift. Wouldn'ta caused as much trouble. _

Whoever put up the Christmas tree hung red, green, gold and blue glass ornaments in random places on the branches. Murdock shook his head, thankful for something else to do, and busied himself rearranging the decorations. As he did, he whistled 'White Christmas' and stopped mid-song when he realized why that particular song resonated in his mind.

Hadn't Hannibal promised back in the camp when he was hurting the most to treat him to a real homegrown Christmas in Detroit? Didn't he promise snow and a visit to the department store with the huge Christmas tree outlined in lights on the front of the building? The one with bigger than life reindeer decorations soaring over the tops of the aisles?

Of course, that was before the guards dragged him and Hannibal out of the hut they shared with B. A. and Face. Before they were forced to watch the guys from the next hut carry Luke Cassel's stripped skeletal body outside the camp for burial. Before he was thrown into the isolation pit . . . before he sang that song 'White Christmas' to let his friends know he was still alive . . .

_No, no, NO! Stop thinkin' 'bout it! . . . Focus on th' tree . . . Let's see . . . blue . . . red . . . gold . . . green . . . blue . . . red . . . gold . . . 'O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree . . . '_

He was so intent on the pattern he created in a spiraling descent from the top of the tree to the bottom limbs that he didn't hear the double doors open.

"I see you cleaned up the kitchen already. Is it almost time for pie?" That was his buddy's voice. Murdock froze, an ornament in his hand, not wanting to turn around. If he was right, from the sound of it, Face drank more than his share of the wine Hannibal brought to him. He made himself hang the blue ornament in place. The glass orb shook in his hand, reflecting the tree lights on its smooth surface.

_Maybe he don' r'member th' gift. A li'l wine 'n' Hann'bal talkin' t' him . . . maybe he don' r'member at all . . . _

"'Bout time ya got back, Faceman. Next time _you_ do the dishes with the fool. He woulda broke every dish in the place, tossin' 'em around the way he was." B. A. sounded relieved. The pilot couldn't resist taking a second to stop what he was doing and see if the expression on the big man's face matched the tone. He wasn't sure what mood his best friend was in. Wasn't sure if he wanted to face him yet and find out.

As he turned, he met Face's apologetic and curious gaze. The Lieutenant stood a yard away from him.

_How'd he manage t' get so close t' me without me knowin'? Without me smellin' that cologne he always wears? _

Face didn't look at the kitchen to check the damage the pilot had created. His gaze was riveted on his friend. "Well, I hope he didn't. The Contessa would be _very_ upset if her best dishes were broken." The con man flashed him a brilliant genuine smile. "But I'm sure if you did break anything, I know a way to smooth it over with her. In fact, one or two broken dishes might give us a _lot_ to have to smooth over. Might be fun asking for her forgiveness."

The pilot absently nodded, hearing voices in his mind telling him what to do. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears and squeeze his eyes shut, tell them to shut up . . .

_. . . but if I do that, there'll be all kinds o' questions. So do I go back t' what I was doin' . . . I mean, I was jus' 'bout done . . . 'r do I say good night 'n' head t' my room so I can put that stupid dog tag in my duffel bag 'til I know what t' do with it? _

Face was staring at Murdock's hands, his brows drawn together in a frown. He gestured toward them with a nod. "Looks like you got a bad case of dishpan hands. Do they hurt?"

Murdock held his hands up to glance at them. _Oh great. Didn' know how bad they looked. _

"A li'l." Then he stuffed them back in his pants pockets to hide them. To tell the truth, they hurt a bit more than a little. Any more hot water over them and he would have raised blisters.

The pilot looked past Face to Hannibal and B. A., both of them grim, both scrutinizing him.

"Well, all day tomorrow you let _me_ handle washing the dishes and doing some of the cooking. Okay?" Face stood in front of him, holding him by the elbows to make eye contact. Involuntarily, his muscles tensed. The blue eyes were solemn with concern and Murdock realized Face probably knew he hadn't taken his meds for a while.

_No, make that 'bout a couple weeks now._

"I think I have some lotion that will take down the pain if you want to use it." The con man dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back. Murdock felt his shoulders relax as Face released him.

_He knows. 'Course he knows. We ain' been best buddies for th' las' . . . how many years? . . . guess he knows a li'l 'bout how my mind works. I get like this, I can't stan' t' have no one hold me in one place. Gotta have th' freedom t' move. Flight 'r fright . . . ain' that what they call it? _

Face's gaze moved to the tree behind the pilot. Appraising it from sparkling top to bottom, he gave Murdock a strained smile. "That looks a lot better now. You did a good job." Raising one eyebrow with wicked humor, he came closer again and muttered in Murdock's ear, "You wouldn't have happened to find a red lace garter hung in one of the branches or behind the tree, did you? I never did get to looking for that after I saw the Contessa off at the airport."

"No. No red garter. A few dust bunnies on th' floor. One o' them called himself George." Murdock tried to return the smile.

_Oh sure . . . jus' say somethin' dumb t' make 'em think you lost it even more. Looney tunes? Yup, that's me . . . _

As the theme music to the Looney Tunes cartoons played in the pilot's head, B. A. grumbled, "Crazy fool prob'ly wants t' put one in a box an' keep it as a pet." Hannibal shook his head slightly at the big man, his gaze intent on Murdock.

_Wish Hann'bal'd stop lookin' at me. I got it under control . . . _

Face had moved over to the sofa where he was sitting before. Picking up the torn wrapping paper and cardboard box, he looked inside, then pulled out the batting. He dropped the box on the couch and got down on his hands and knees to look underneath. Finding nothing, he got back on his feet and gave Murdock a puzzled look before staring down at the empty box.

When he looked back at Murdock, the pilot returned the gaze, trying to keep his expression blank.

_Sorry, Faceman. Can' help ya. Gotta make it right . . . 'Please have snow 'n' mistletoe 'n' presents under th' tree . . . ' _

"Looking for something, kid?" Hannibal joined Face in searching the couch cushions.

"The box with the chain and dog tag. It must have slipped down into the couch." The two men were so intent on their search that Murdock shifted from foot to foot, hoping they wouldn't decide to frisk _him _next.

B. A. wasn't saying anything. Murdock knew the Sergeant witnessed him slipping the box into his pocket but all the big man did was to scowl at him and cross his arms.

_He ain' gonna say anythin' but he wants me t' decide what t' do. Well, I can' give Face this dog tag 'n' make 'im relive all those mem'ries . . . 'I'm dreamin' of a white Christmas, Jus' like . . . ' stop it! Jus' stop it! _

He had to think of something.

"Aw, don' worry 'bout it, buddy." He heard how strained his tone was and swallowed to calm himself. It didn't work. "I'll jus' get ya somethin' else, somethin' _better_, 'n' maybe you'll fin' th' other thing when ya fin' th' Contessa's garter."

The look Face gave him told him the issue was far from being resolved.

"If I remember right, Captain, you said before we ate that you made enough pie for an army. Let's have our dessert and some coffee and then we can each open another gift." Hannibal diverted the conversation to something else.

From past experience, Murdock knew that meant the Colonel was giving Face and him time to think things through and then privately settle it between themselves.

_Ain' nothin' t' settle. I jus' gotta replace this gift with somethin' my buddy'd really like. _

Murdock faked a wide yawn and stretched his arms high above his head. "If ya don' mind, Colonel, I think I'm gonna beg out on th' pie 'n' coffee. I been bakin' 'n' cookin' almost straight through for two days 'n' I'm beat." He headed toward the hallway where his assigned bedroom was. Before he disappeared from their sight, he called back over his shoulder, "Ya got your choice o' pecan, sweet potata, apple 'n' pumpkin. Jus' save me a piece o' somethin' for t'morrow. G'night."

With that, he walked as quickly as he could toward the bedroom door, slammed it open so the door knob hit the wall and slipped inside.

oooooo

For a few seconds the three men in the living room stared down the hallway in surprise.

Hannibal was the first to say anything. "Face . . . "

"Already on it, Colonel. He's hiding more than that box. He's acting like he does when something happens on a mission and he doesn't have access to his meds." The Lieutenant took a few steps toward the hallway. As he passed the couch he scowled down at the empty box on the couch.

_Oh, buddy. What are you doing to yourself now? And why didn't I just accept that gift and figure out later what to do with it? _

"That's what I was thinking too, kid. He wouldn't go off to bed if there was an opportunity to open gifts." Hannibal agreed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in weary resignation. "Before you talk to him, check the medicine cabinet and find out if he has all the pills he's supposed to have."

Face stopped at the entrance to the hallway and turned to look at the Colonel. "How am I going to be able to tell? I have a vague idea of what he's currently taking. That's not the problem. Even _if_ the bottles are there, and they might not be if he put them in his duffel bag to keep us knowing from what's going on, it doesn't mean he's been taking what he's supposed to, does it?"

"Why would the fool do somethin' like that? Not take his meds, I mean." B. A. looked from Hannibal to Face for the answer. A worried expression replaced his usual stoicism.

"We don't know for sure he isn't," the Colonel reminded them.

"But he's been on a hair trigger ever since we busted him outta the hospital. Been gettin' on my nerves with all his Christmas jibber-jabber." The Sergeant glanced at Face as if to ask him to confirm the truth of what he said. "Been after me night an' day ta lighten up."

Hannibal gave B. A. a piercing look.

"Hey, the fool's still alive, ain' he?" the Sergeant mumbled defensively. "An' it wasn't all bad, I guess. When he was singin' all those Christmas songs, I mean. Kinda got us in the spirit."

"I'll find out exactly what's going on." The con man took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "As hard as he's been driving himself for two days, I don't think he's had more than three hours of sleep in forty-eight hours."

_Exactly what he would be like if he went cold turkey off his diazepam. I should have recognized the signs way before this. And now . . . who knows what's going through his head?_

"Do that, Face. And while you're at it . . . "

"I'll smooth it over with him about the dog tag." As Face continued down the hall to Murdock's room, he overheard B. A. mutter, "Ya _better_ make it right, Faceman." Then raising his voice a little, the Sergeant added, "The box's in his pants pocket if he hasn't hidden it by now."

oooooo

The con man made a quick stop in the bathroom. Rifling the medicine cabinet, he retrieved the tube of lotion for Murdock's burned hands and a bottle of ibuprofen to take down the inflammation. Filling a glass half full of water, he counted the pilot's pill bottles neatly lined up on the top shelf. Noticeably missing was the diazepam the pilot took for anxiety.

_What did he do with it? _

The question hurried his pace down the hallway. He wasn't sure if his buddy had the pills right now. He didn't believe for one minute Murdock was getting ready for bed.

_And if he's locked the door, I'll pick the lock. Some way or another, I'm going to make sure he's alright. _


	4. Chapter 4

What Better Time To Remember?

Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.

Chapter 4

Murdock couldn't make his thoughts stop swirling around even after he stepped inside his room and closed the door behind him. He thought about locking it but he knew that would set off even more alarm bells if someone tried the door.

_Jus' hope I was convincin' 'n' nobody comes t' check up on me. I gotta get rid o' this . . . _

Stuffing his hand in his pants pocket, he panicked when he couldn't find the jeweler's box.

_No, no, no, no! Where are ya? It didn' fall out, did it? _

He couldn't go back to the living room to look for it. What could he use as an excuse?

_I'm s'posed t' be goin' t' bed, not comin' back out for a snack. But, come t' think o' it, that could be a very good excuse. Not even the angry mudsucker'd question me if I said I needed a snack t' put me t' sleep. But where would I look without makin' 'em suspicious? Th' fridge? _

Slipping his hand in the other pants pocket, he stifled a manic laugh of relief when his fingers closed around the velvety container.

_There ya are! Now where'd I put my bag? _

He stared wild-eyed around the room, turning full circle.

_Where is it, where is it, where is . . . ah ha! _

He spied the olive drab canvas of the duffel on the floor of the closet. Carelessly swinging the bag onto the bed, he opened the drawstring top and froze when he heard the knock on the door.

"Murdock? I have that lotion for your hands I told you about. Can I come in?" That was Face's voice.

Tempted to yell 'no,' he pushed the bag under the bed with one foot and kicked off both shoes instead. If he didn't respond soon, his friend might come in anyway, just to check on him.

Pulling off his flannel shirt, he tossed it over the chair in front of the desk and threw back the bed covers. He climbed in, rolled on his side and tucked the top blanket up under his arm. Bending his other arm under the pillow so his head was cradled, he let out the breath he had been holding. The skin on the top of the hand under the pillow burned as if on fire. He had to ignore that for now.

_Gotta make this look good. _

The jeweler's box in his pants pocket ground into his hip as he feigned drowsiness. Forcing a huge yawn, he said over the top of it, "Yeah, come on in."

oooooo

When Murdock didn't answer immediately, a number of alarms went off in the con man's mind. He considered forcing the door or yelling for Hannibal and B. A. but he didn't want to do anything until he was sure something was wrong.

_But Murdock needs to know I trust him. He doesn't need to be treated like a suicidal teenager. _

Listening carefully, his ear to the wood door, he heard rustling and the sound of things hitting the floor. Then Murdock said, "Yeah, come on in."

Face hesitated for only a moment before turning the door knob and gently prodding the door open. Murdock's voice may have sounded groggy but something about its tone didn't ring true.

"Make it right" both B. A. and Hannibal said. Face intended to do that but he had to first make sure his friend wasn't putting himself in danger.

oooooo

He watched through half-closed eyes as the door slowly creaked open. Face entered the room, carrying a water glass, a tube of something and a pill bottle.

Setting the glass and first aid items on the bedside table, the con man sat down on the edge of the bed. "Let me look at your hands."

His friend had the type of look on his face that suggested he wasn't going to let Murdock fake his way out of anything. The pilot swallowed and turned over on his back, propping himself up against the pillow. "Why d'ya wanna see my hands? Are ya gonna read my palm?"

Ignoring his mild protest, Face examined first one hand and then the other, shaking his head as he did. Finally, he released Murdock's hands and uncapped the tube of lotion. "What were you thinking? You didn't raise blisters but I bet it hurts plenty, doesn't it?"

Murdock didn't answer, just allowed his brick-red hands to rest on top of the blanket. If nursing him distracted Face and kept him from asking about the gift box, then he would let the con man do that.

The Lieutenant uncapped the pill bottle and shook out two tablets. "Here. Take these." As Murdock obeyed, Face waited with the glass of water. Handing it to him, the con man busied himself with the tube of lotion.

Squirting a tablespoon of it on his fingers, the Lieutenant gently slathered it over the worst of the burns. "There. Now you can spread that over the rest of your hands." He watched as the Captain gingerly applied the lotion, then let his hands rest on top of the bed covers again. "Now doesn't that feel better? The ibuprofen should take down any swelling and help you sleep a little."

Murdock faked another yawn, aware that his friend wasn't convinced. "Feels a li'l better. Man, am I tired. If ya wanna stay, you're welcome to but I think I'm gonna get some shut-eye."

He closed his eyes, hoping his friend would take the hint and leave him alone. His mind sped along at a rate even faster than Superman on amphetamines rushing to save the world.

_Now leave me 'lone. Let me take care o' that box 'n' try t' get some sleep . . . 'I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas . . . 'cause I ain' been nuttin' but bad' . . . _

He held back the urge to sing the song out loud. Squeezing his eyes tighter, he faked another yawn and waited.

oooooo

He avoided staring at the dog tag on its chain which encircled Murdock's neck.

_Of course he'd have one of his own. He wouldn't ask us to do it if he wasn't going to wear one, too. _

Looking elsewhere, Face winced at the reddened skin on his friend's hands and wondered what he should do next. By morning Murdock's hands would be back to normal but tonight the pilot might have a restless time sleeping.

Even when Murdock yawned, Face didn't believe at all that he was ready to go to sleep. The slight tremor he observed in his friend's hands told him the Captain was as tightly wired as the sound board of a piano.

He couldn't go back to the living room without finding out about the diazepam or resolving the issue of the gift. Hannibal and B. A. expected him to return with Murdock in tow.

They were ready to have dessert and coffee and finish out Christmas Eve with more presents and probably a toast with one of the bottles of wine Face bought for the occasion. They would not want to do any of those things with one man missing. No, he couldn't go back to them empty-handed.

_If I have to, I'll wait here all night. _

oooooo

The mattress shifted under him. Face had either gotten up or he had settled in to do some serious talking.

_Or was that jus' my min' doin' loop-da-loops? If he ain' gonna let me sleep . . . Wonder how good I can fake snorin'?_

"Listen, Murdock. We need to talk."

The pilot opened one eye to squint at his friend and tucked a bent arm under his head. "Okey-dokey, Faceman. What 'bout?"

_Okay, so he ain' gonna leave. He ain' buyin' th' whole sleepytime act. Shoulda r'membered ya can't con a con man . . . 'specially not my buddy . . . _

"I've seen you haven't been sleeping much this past week. While I was looking for this stuff, I noticed your anti-anxiety pills aren't in the medicine cabinet." Face cocked an eyebrow at him. "Those two things put together mean maybe you haven't been taking your diazepam."

Murdock frowned and opened both eyes to focus on his friend. That wasn't the topic he thought they would be discussing. "Ya mean this ain' 'bout that dog tag with Heller's name on it?"

"We'll get to that. This is more important." Face was not smiling.

The pilot didn't feel much like smiling either.

_Nothin' like a heart-t'-heart talk t' kill th' Christmas spirit. Well, okay . . . _

"But that's where you're wrong, muchacho. I'm here with my friends, we jus' had a good meal . . . we all got presents . . . what does Chuck have . . . that is, if he's still 'live? What kind o' Christmas is his folks havin', not knowin' if he's 'live or dead? Ain' _that_ important?" He knew his voice was getting louder. Any minute Hannibal might come to see if Face needed assistance.

_Dammit! Somethin' like this oughta be shouted from th' rooftops. We left guys over there 'n' Uncle Sam don' seem t' care. Th' country seems t' of forgotten. Somebody's gotta still care 'bout 'em. _

He fixed Face with a fiery stare and pushed himself into a sitting position against the pillow. "Somethin' tells me deep inside that he's still 'live, Face. I can' b'lieve he's dead. I can't! Chuck's still 'live somewhere."

oooooo

As if Murdock slugged him in the jaw, his friend's certainty that Chuck Heller was still alive hit Face hard. Hannibal said that he hadn't told the Captain about Heller's status.

He tried to maintain a blank expression, one that wouldn't reveal he knew anything more than Murdock did. Usually he was very good at it but what his friend said shook him.

_He can't possibly know, can he? _

oooooo

Looking at his friend's face, Murdock detected something strange, a slight twitch around the eyes as if the statement surprised the con man. Then it was gone, replaced by a deadpan poker face.

Face stared down at the floor and murmured in a low voice, "How do you know Heller's alive?"

The pilot scrutinized his friend before answering.

_Do I tell 'im 'bout th' dreams I've been havin' lately? Th' nightmares that've been wakin' me up in th' middle o' th' night with th' cold sweats? _

Face would understand a little better than B. A. would. Murdock picked at the blanket top with the fingers of one hand as he spoke. He didn't meet the Lieutenant's gaze until he finished. "I ain' been sleepin' real good lately. Started a couple o' weeks ago. Th' same dream over 'n' over 'gain. 'Bout Chuck."

"Is that why you haven't been taking your diazepam? You're trying to stay awake so you don't have those nightmares?"

The question startled the pilot. He hadn't thought about it that way . . .

_. . . but maybe he's . . . right? Is that th' reason? So it's not b'cause I wanted t' stop feelin' so . . . dead inside? _

"No, it ain' that. I jus' wanted t' be in th' Christmas spirit, not doped up." Murdock sighed heavily. The rest of the words came out in a rush. "'N' th' idea for the dog tags came way b'fore th' nightmares started. Like th' middle o' October 'n' I got 'em made th' nex' week. I was plannin' t' give 'em to you guys on Veteran's Day. But ya don' give out gifts on Veteran's Day so I waited." He repeated his denial. "I jus' wanted t' really _feel_ th' Christmas spirit."

oooooo

Face was stunned. His friend was one of the merriest souls he knew this time of year. Hadn't Murdock been belting out Christmas songs and carols almost endlessly for two days? There had been no suggestion the pilot wasn't as joyous internally as he seemed to be externally.

He read once that some medications for anxiety and depression leveled out emotions. With no highs or lows, maybe the holidays became like every other time of the year. He had to give Murdock credit for fighting against that.

_But to do it by refusing to take his meds isn't the right way. _

And then his mind drifted to the gift Murdock gave him and he mentally kicked himself again.

_Make it right, Face. Make it right. _

He thought about what his friend was going through and suddenly understood what the real issue might be.

_I'm going to have to be very careful and help him sort all of this out. _


	5. Chapter 5

What Better Time To Remember?

Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.

Chapter 5

Face smiled wistfully at the pilot.

"Since I've known you, you have always had the Christmas spirit . . . and the Easter spirit . . . and the Halloween spirit . . . hell, you've had the spirit of every major holiday and even some of the minor ones. Remember in August when you wanted me to scam a helicopter for you just so you could observe National Aviation Day from the sky? You even tried to get B. A. in the spirit of that one."

Murdock grimaced at the memory of the Sergeant's threats. B. A. hadn't been very cooperative when the Captain suggested they all celebrate the day together from about ten thousand feet above the earth.

"The point is your meds haven't stopped you from being in the spirit before, have they?" Face maintained eye contact while he said the words.

_He don' b'lieve me. _

The pilot shook his head vigorously. "But you ain' ever taken th' kinda drug cocktail I gotta take t' be halfway normal." Even as he said it, he realized B. A. might disagree with how _normal_ he was. The thought almost made him laugh. "Sometimes, I gotta work _hard_ at stayin' on top o' it. Truth is, the drugs cover up a lotta stuff I got goin' inside me. Ever' once in a while you guys get t' see th' inside stuff 'cause it comes out." His mood switched suddenly and he buried his face in trembling hands. "It comes out 'n' a lotta times I don' want it to. Triggers . . . sights, smells, sounds . . . missions . . . make it come out."

He wasn't certain why he was afraid to look at his friend.

_Why? 'Cause sometimes you're th' trigger, Face. Like a while 'go . . . when ya dropped th gift 'n' ran. _

oooooo

Face drew imaginary circles on the bedspread with his finger as he listened. With the last sentence, he paused in mid-circle and glanced up. "Well, sometimes when the inside stuff comes out, it's come in handy. The bad guys don't know what they're dealing with. Like when you yell for trash bags or pretend you're a horse or a chicken. It throws them off so we can get the drop on them. It's pure genius."

He wished Murdock would stop covering his face and look at him. Hiding solved nothing.

_But don't I hide behind a mask? I've got things I've stuffed inside, too. Like the guilt I feel over Heller. Dammit, Hannibal! Why didn't you tell me years ago? _

oooooo

Murdock sensed that his friend was only saying that to defuse the anxiety attack building up inside him. After all these years of friendship, Face knew the signs.

_Does he know how easy that is for me t' flip in 'n' outta the craziness? 'N' I don' always know I'm doin' it. _

The con man chuckled but stopped when Murdock didn't move or answer. "Could it be that the nightmares you're having came from your plan to have the dog tags made for us?"

Murdock scrubbed his face with both hands and looked up, puzzled.

His friend continued. "Was your obsession with Chuck Heller's POW status a trigger for the nightmares?"

It sounded logical. Everything Murdock knew about psychiatry and how his own mind worked suggested it could be true.

"So . . . " He drew the word out to give himself time to collect his scattered thoughts. "So I would o' been better off tryin' t' forget it. Get everyone th' same ol' things I get for ya every year. Hannibal his cigars, you your cologne, B. A. some tools for th' van." He paused, then blurted, "Well, it didn't stop me from doin' _that_, too. I jus' got these made as a stockin' stuffer sort o' thing. 'N' I thought it was th' right thing t' do." He was out of breath with the anger rising up inside. He knew he shouldn't be so upset. Maybe it was his uncontrollable anxiety speaking.

_Hann'bal 'n' B. A. didn' mind. They knew what I meant by givin' 'em those dog tags. Why can' Face let go o' th' past . . . _

Face wouldn't meet his intense gaze. He stared at the bedroom door before responding. "It doesn't make the gift wrong . . . it just opens wounds that haven't healed. It was a good idea . . . but maybe not now when it's Christmas. It dampens the joy a little."

"If it was _me_ . . . or Hann'bal . . . or B. A. . . . that was still a POW or missin' in action, would ya let Christmas go on as if everythin' was business as usual? Would ya, could ya, be joyful knowin' one o' us was MIA? 'N' if there's wounds that ain' healed yet, ain' it time for those t' start healin' right?" Murdock wasn't sure if his argument made sense or not.

He must have made a point, the right one, because Face averted his eyes to stare at his own hands. The con man remained quiet for several seconds, so long that Murdock worried that he had pushed the argument too far.

_Come on, muchacho. Say something. Tell me I'm wrong t' think 'bout th' past. Anythin' but this silence. _

oooooo

At first Face seethed with anger.

_Murdock has a lot of nerve saying that. After all, isn't he hospitalized because he hasn't let anyone see the wounds inside him that need to be healed? How can he point a finger at me when he has just as much pain stuffed away? _

But how would he feel if it _was_ Murdock that was missing in action? The pilot's special brand of manic excitement over the holidays . . . and now Face understood it was excitement that was more difficult to achieve than any of them realized . . . made Christmas memorable . . . a lot more memorable than any he had spent growing up in the orphanage.

Even though he felt silly doing it, didn't he stay up as long as Murdock did each Christmas Eve watching for a dog team pulling Santa and a sled full of packages?

_My buddy always insisted it made more sense that Santa was a dog lover and had a kennel full of dogs of different breeds to deliver gifts. Didn't he claim Billy was a descendant of the original dog team leaders Santa used on the first Christmas?_

Then there was Vietnam. No matter how many special packages B. A.'s Momma or Murdock's Gramma and girlfriend sent, no matter how much they tried to decorate the hooch to look festive, it was still war-torn Vietnam and a helluva long way from home.

Even there Murdock did zany things to put him in the holiday spirit. Like the time he strung together several C-ration tins in a type of garland for the inside of the hooch. Or when he collected the silver inner wrappers from sticks of Wrigley's chewing gum and spent half a night carefully folding them so they resembled stars, then stuck them all over the spindly tree Face had managed to procure. And how he knew every Christmas song and carol, and even some Face had never heard, singing them over and over until B. A. just about made him sleep on the sandbags outside their quarters.

The only Christmas he remembered the Captain not to be merry was the one spent in the POW camp and for very good reason. The memories of a badly beaten Murdock singing 'White Christmas' from the depths of the isolation pit invaded his mind and made him feel sick at heart. They had almost lost him to madness.

_No! I don't want to think about those kinds of things. This is Christmastime, dammit! _

Burying the memory again, he shifted his position on the bed. He never realized the pilot had to _work_ so hard at feeling something inside this time of year.

Maybe Christmas would never be completely right until the painful memories and guilt were laid to rest. For _all_ of them.

_And especially for Chuck Heller. God knows what kind of memories . . . _

Subconsciously he shuddered thinking about the man who sacrificed himself for him to remain free. He glanced up at Murdock and met his anxious brown-eyed gaze.

_It's like he's asking my forgiveness . . . when it should be me asking him. _

The words B. A. said, "Make it right," thrummed in his head. Clearing his throat of a clogging lump, he murmured, "All this time's passed and I still can't think of Heller without remembering the sacrifice he made. It's been easier to avoid remembering him. When I didn't think about him, I didn't feel like a failure."

The pilot reached out to place a hand on Face's wrist. He didn't say a word, just nodded solemnly, his eyes hollow as if seeing his own last memories of their fellow POW.

oooooo

Murdock remembered the first time he heard Chuck Heller and Bruce Wilson talking. Even though their dialect was slightly different from his own, he knew they were fellow Texans. He somehow managed to connect with them . . . when was it? Was it a chance encounter while staggering to the latrine pit? POWs weren't allowed a lot of casual conversation yet each one knew who their neighbors were. You never knew if you might someday be released and have the privilege . . . or hard task . . . of letting your neighbor's folks stateside know about their son's last known status. But Murdock made sure he knew the man himself and not just the POW's status. It was the type of person he was.

_Bruce said he was gonna tell Chuck's folks 'bout him when he got back. Wonder if he did? I shoulda been th' one. I knew 'im even better 'n Face did. I shoulda . . . _

They communicated a lot through the tap code but once when he was being hung by his wrists from a tree in the camp yard for several long hours, he sang songs. Partly to rile the guards but mainly to encourage his fellow prisoners. When he sang 'Dixie' he saw both Heller and Wilson straighten by the door of their hut as if to salute him.

_Us Southerners stick t'gether. 'N' weren' they both with us when we escaped . . . when I . . . when I stabbed . . . killed Ferret . . . _

He swallowed hard and swept a hand over his eyes. Chuck Heller. The voice that haunted him in his recent nightmares was Heller's. He was certain of it though he didn't ever see the man's face.

_Why can't I ever see 'is face? Why? I could help 'im if I knew where he was. _

oooooo

Both men remained silent in thought. After several moments Face realized his friend's breaths were shorter, quicker, as if he was on the verge of panic. The pilot's eyes were glazed with ugly memories.

Worried, the con man placed his own hand on top of Murdock's, careful not to squeeze it.

_What are you thinking, buddy? Please . . . with everything going on, don't go there. Don't go back to the POW camp. Stay here. _

Face was relieved when the other man's eyes returned to focus on him and not a distant horrific memory.

"Chuck Heller saved my life. We . . . I . . . _should_ honor him. You were right about that." He paused to think through what he should say next.

_How do I get Murdock to promise to start taking his diazepam and, maybe more important, give me the gift he went to all that trouble to get for me? _

Murdock stared at him in silence. The con man couldn't be sure that the pilot's mind wasn't still tormenting him.

"I want to make a deal with you." Face tightened his hold on Murdock's hand as he tried to pull it away. He saw a grimace pass over the other man's face. "Listen to me. Don't stop me until you've heard what I'm asking. Deal?"

oooooo

The voices in Murdock's mind warned him not to trust what Face said. He stared at the con man and listened to the raucous shouting in his head, knowing when the voices started arguing, it was never a good sign. They couldn't be trusted to tell the truth but they were so convincing . . .

_He ain' bein' completely honest with ya . . . he knows somethin' you don' . . . he's treatin' ya like yer a li'l psychotic kid . . . maybe I am . . . _

Face's hand rested lightly on top of his own. Sometimes the Lieutenant did that to help Murdock stay grounded in reality. It was beginning to help. The smooth calming tone his friend used seemed to be driving the internal demons back into hiding. His mind started to clear but the voices, though fainter, were more agitated.

Suddenly, one voice screamed so loudly that the pilot tried to pull away from his friend and cover his ears. Without warning, the con man gripped his burned hand tighter. The pilot bit back a yelp. The sudden pain silenced all of the internal voices.

The scream in his head immediately stopped and Murdock heard Face say, "Deal?"

_Deal? What deal? What deal'm I s'posed t' say yes to? _


	6. Chapter 6

What Better Time To Remember?

Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.

Chapter 6

For a few seconds Murdock didn't react to what Face said. Then he gave the Lieutenant a small uncertain nod, his eyes wary. Face's heart sank.

_Why is he being so cautious with me? I'm his best friend. I'm not trying to hurt him. _

The con man took a steadying breath and hoped Hannibal would abide by the promise he was about to make. "Here's the deal. I won't ask you to take your diazepam until tomorrow evening after all the Christmas festivities are done. And you and I'll stay awake tonight as long as we can by the Christmas tree and watch for Santa and his dog team to come to the house."

_At least that way I'll be able to monitor you better and make sure you're safe. _

"No snow for 'em t' travel on," Murdock mumbled, his fingers picking at the bed covers again.

"Has that ever stopped Santa before?" Face waited for a response. "Well? Has it?"

_Come on, buddy! You haven't said that in the past. What's it going to take to get you back in the Christmas spirit? _

Face secretly sighed in relief when the corners of Murdock's lips twitched in a faint smile. "No. Guess not. Guess ol' Santa prob'ly knows all th' air currents th' team can use t' run on."

"That's right." The Lieutenant frowned. If it made sense to his friend, Face would accept it. Murdock always seemed to come up with an explanation for everything, even if the explanation was bizarre.

"'N' we'll have those Christmas cookies I made las' night 'n' milk 'n' set out a special plate 'n' glass for Santa?" Something in the pilot's tone and the way his eyes pleaded with Face made the con man realize that Murdock wasn't asking for that because he believed in Santa. No, it was something else.

_He wants to see if our Christmas Eve ritual feels different this year without the meds. _

The Lieutenant smiled. "Yes, we'll do all of that. I'll make sure to clear it with Hannibal."

_And I hope the Colonel trusts me enough to believe I know what's best for my buddy. _

"Ya better make sure ya clear it with B. A., too. I mean, we're gonna be tappin' inta th' milk he got for himself t' drink t'morrow." Murdock stopped pulling threads from the blanket and looked at his friend with such a serious expression that Face wondered if he really _was_ worried about what the Sergeant would say or do.

"If I remember right, B. A. has _four gallons_ of milk in the refrigerator earmarked for his consumption. What's the chances he's going to miss any of it?" Even so, Face knew he would have to ask the Sergeant to allow them at least a half gallon.

Murdock cocked an eyebrow. "You know th' big angry mudsucker. Ya'd best ask first. If th' Big Guy don' have 'nough milk for t'morrow, he ain' gonna be very happy."

"I'll ask. Okay?"

Face watched his friend's expression brighten. "Can we turn all th' lights off 'cept th' ones on th' tree? 'N' have th' radio on real low. Th' Christmas music station?"

_There you go. That's my buddy. _

The Lieutenant nodded, his smile growing. He had to hand it to his buddy. His enthusiasm, even though it was not as buoyant as before, was still infectious. "Billy can even sleep on the floor between our sleeping bags. But you have to promise me to start taking your meds again as soon as Christmas is over."

The pilot nodded his assent. "I was plannin' to anyways. After th' holidays there'd be no _need_ for me not t' take 'em." He rambled on, muttering under his breath, "That's 'n easy promise t' keep. First day back at th' VA, they're gonna make _sure_ I'm takin' all my meds like I'm s'posed to."

oooooo

_Well, shoot! If that's all Faceman wants me t' do, we can get back t' celebratin' . . . soon as I take care o' that stupid dog tag . . . I just hafta try 'n' get 'im t' leave me 'lone for a sec . . . how'm I gonna do that? _

The jeweler's box felt like it was burning a hole in his pants pocket. He tried to stifle the mental image of the velvety exterior like acid melting away the flesh around his pelvic bone.

_That can' happen, can it? _

There was no way of slipping his hand under the covers to remove it and set it beside him between the sheets. The movement would attract his friend's attention.

_He'd figure it out. He ain' stupid. _

The voices began their malicious whispers again even as he pondered what to do.

oooooo

Face swallowed, knowing he had one more thing to ask. _I have to make it right between us. _"And I want _all_ of the gifts you had for me. I don't want you to return anything."

"All?" Murdock repeated. He frowned at his friend, examining his expression to make sure.

"Starting with the dog tag and chain. Like you said, it's time to begin the healing process. Chuck Heller's sacrifice should never be forgotten, and _especially_ not by me."

The pilot fidgeted, turning his eyes back on his burned hands. For a few seconds he appeared to be wrestling with a decision.

"Come on, buddy. Where'd you put it? I've changed my mind. Really, I have." Face hoped his words were enough to get his friend to give him the box. He honestly didn't want to search the room.

_And if B. A. is right and the box is in Murdock's pocket, I don't want to have to frisk him to get it back either. Please, buddy. Don't make this difficult. _

oooooo

The voices jockeyed for prominence in his mind.

_He's jus' sayin' that t' keep ya from havin' a meltdown, ya know. He don' want t' r'member Heller. For all these years he's been tryin' t' forget. _

Another one hissed, _Yer gift brought back too many bad mem'ries. Why'd ya do that to him? Thought he was yer friend. _

His father's drunken voice slurred, _Ya ain' right in th' head, boy. Thinkin' yer friend'd want somethin' like that t' r'mind 'im o' Nam. Twistin' a knife in 'is guts, that's all that dog tag does. _

He resisted the urge to press the edges of the pillow up around his ears and scream until he drowned the voices out. Here at the beach house, with his friends around him, he would be safe doing it. They wouldn't strap him into a chair and give him electroconvulsive treatments . . . or pump him full of haloperidol until he saw nothing but the purple wobbly melting walls . . .

_I'm not listenin' . . . I got my ears shut t' you . . . lalalalala . . . 'fa la la la la, la la la . . . la . . . Deck th' halls with . . . ' _

Face was scrutinizing him like he was singing 'I'll Be Home For Christmas' in Swahili.

_Hmmm . . . wonder what that'd soun' like? 'Nitakuwa nyumbani kwa ajili ya Krismasi . . . ' _

He decided it sounded too strange to sing it out loud. But struggling to translate the song drove the voices into silence again. Avoiding the con man's stare, looking at his hands . . . _how'd I burn them 'gain? . . . _he remembered the box in his pocket.

Face sighed and patted his forearm to get his attention. "Let's go out and have some pie and coffee, maybe some wine later. Okay? We'll talk about that gift when you feel up to it. Maybe we'll even talk about Chuck."

His friend's tone suggested he was disappointed. Murdock scrutinized the Lieutenant's face and saw the same mood reflected there.

_Crap! He ain' gonna let it go now. I can' let 'im beg for that gift 'n' he will if I don' give it back t' him. _

The con man stood and walked to the door. With his hand on the door knob, he turned to smile at Murdock. His smile seemed sadder. "Coming?"

_I gotta make it right b'tween us. _

The pilot's mouth went dry. "D'ya mean it . . . 'bout th' gift, I mean . . . I . . . I got things in my head tellin' me . . . " He stopped, guilt forcing his eyes away from his friend's concerned frown and back to his burned hands.

_Don' tell 'im 'bout th' voices. He wouldn' understan'._

oooooo

It wasn't the first time Murdock confessed to Face that things in his head directed his actions and gave him information.

The con man never gave those admissions much thought in the past. Even the 'Napoleon' t-shirt his friend sometimes wore couldn't possibly mean anything more than being a clever poke at people who had delusions.

Could it? He figured Murdock had a very good combination of common sense, blind luck and uncanny intuition. Nothing more.

_But is it more than that? And how long has it been going on? _

The important thing was to get that box back and relieve the tension between them. Maybe that would ground Murdock in reality again.

_Even if he denies there's anything wrong . . . _

Face had to try one more time. "Of course, I meant it, buddy." He said it in his most sincere voice.

Well, that was it. He couldn't leave the room when Murdock was talking like that. He couldn't leave him to sort out the delusions and paranoia and Lord knew what else was going on inside his friend's head. He had to be patient and wait. What else could he do?

oooooo

Murdock slipped his hand under the covers and into his pocket, letting his fingers close around the box. Even now, the velvety surface felt hot to his touch . . . or was he imagining it? The voices snarled and screamed in his head as he slowly drew the gift out from its hiding place and into the open.

He stared at his trembling hand and willed it to stop shaking. It didn't, of course, and he knew it was a combination of withdrawal from the drugs and sleep deprivation that made it do that. He stole a furtive glance at his friend, hoping he didn't notice. Face's eyes were on . . . what? . . . his hand? . . . the box? . . . what?

_I'm not losin' it . . . not losin' it . . . _

"I'm not losin' it!" The words came out of his mouth before he could corral them.

_But, o' course, I am . . . _

oooooo

Face felt ice freeze his gut when he saw the tremors in Murdock's hand. The box was there and it would be a simple matter to walk over and remove it.

_I can't do that to him. He says he's not losing control but that just means he's trying to hide it. I'll have to be careful. _

"I know, I know you're not," Face soothed, his hands up in the air, palms toward his friend, his head bowed in surrender. "I'm your friend, remember? I've seen you when . . . " He paused, wondering how best to put it.

He was surprised to hear Murdock's low chuckle. He was even more surprised to see the pinched look of pain around his eyes and mouth.

"When th' mem'ries close in," the pilot whispered, closing his eyes tightly shut. "Yeah, gotcha . . . "

"Are they? Right now, I mean?" Face noticed his friend's white-knuckled grip on the box.

_I'll never get it away from him if he holds it like that. _

The con man took a step toward Murdock and stopped. If the pilot was in the beginning of a melt-down, touch might be the last thing he would want.

oooooo

"No . . . no . . . it's not th' mem'ries. It's . . . it don' matter." Murdock swiped his mouth and then fanned the air with his free hand as if to dismiss everything that had been said. He frowned down at the box, the voices getting louder again.

_Gotta do somethin' 'bout this right now. Can' let this get in th' way o' Christmas. _

Still feeling small tremors going through his body, the pilot carelessly threw the covers back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He paused to steady himself before getting to his feet.

"Ya said ya wanted this?" He swallowed back a lump in his throat and held out the box to Face. The con man took it from his open palm without a word. "Do what ya want to with it. Las' thing I want's for it t' cause hard feelin's b'tween us."

The other man flinched with that statement. Murdock was pretty sure Face took the box just to defuse the situation. He didn't want to watch the con man slip the gift in his pocket to dispose of later but he couldn't help himself.

_If I was Face 'n' I had somethin' in my hand that caused me nothin' but bad feelin's, I wouldn' hold onta it. _

The two men locked eyes for a moment before Face opened the velvet box and removed the dog tag on its chain. Holding the gift in his hand, the con man murmured, "Thanks, buddy. I won't forget. I promise you that."

As Face moved to slip the chain over his head, Murdock turned to retrieve his flannel shirt from the chair. The lump in his throat had returned and he needed to busy himself with something. He wrestled one arm into a sleeve when Face spoke directly behind him.

"So are you ready to have some pie and coffee?"

Finishing putting on the shirt, Murdock startled when he felt his friend's hand pat him on the upper back. Turning, he pasted a lopsided grin on his face and hoped it hid everything else inside. "Sure am. That is, if th' Big Guy left us any."

Face smiled back, the chain visible around his neck. The pilot couldn't tell if the con man's small sniff was an attempt to hold back a sneeze or something else.

"Well, I don't know. How many pies did you say you made?" He gestured toward the door and followed Murdock as he led the way back into the company of their team mates and friends.


	7. Chapter 7

What Better Time To Remember?

Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.

AN: Shorter chapter this time. My work schedule, writer's block and a bad cold got in the way of writing and posting this sooner. Thanks for reading and commenting!

Chapter 7

Murdock forced his breathing into a regular rhythm even though everything inside screamed for him to run. Each step down the hallway brought him closer to the worried frown and questions Hannibal would unleash on him.

_'N' what'll I say? My voices're tellin' me t' get t' hell outta here 'n' run as far as my legs'll take me. _

He didn't understand why the voices were so insistent. Hannibal and B. A. weren't threatening.

_Well, leas' Hann'bal ain'. Th' Big Guy . . . jury's still out on that one. _

But he knew that wasn't true either. B. A. would defend Murdock with his own life if someone tried to kill him.

And Face. Face had managed to calm him down with so much ease Murdock wondered why the con man hadn't thought to become a therapist . . . or a priest.

The thought of Face hearing confession almost brought a snicker until he remembered how convincing his friend could be playing the part of just about anyone.

Hannibal and B. A. were sitting in the same places as they had been when he said his goodnight and left the room.

B. A. grumbled, "'Bout time ya got out here ta serve up that pie, fool. Been waitin' for ya." His tone was gruff but his eyes had a concerned softness to them that was usually reserved for the kids he worked with at the youth center.

He decided to answer like he normally would even though the voices taunted him with nonsensical provoking things he could say instead.

_All o' which'd make their alarm bells go ding-ding-ding even more. _

Instead, he crooned, "Aw, were ya really waitin' for li'l ol' me?"

Winking at the black man, he was thankful when he received a dark scowl in return.

"I made a pot of coffee." The Colonel pierced him with appraising eyes before glancing quizzically at the con man. Face gave him a barely perceptible nod all of which didn't escape Murdock's attention.

_I musta convinced my buddy. Now I gotta prove t' Hann'bal 'n' B. A. they got nothin' t' worry 'bout. _

"Well, what're we waitin' for?" Murdock offered up a lopsided grin and strolled toward the kitchen.

_Coffee . . . coffee . . . c-o-f-f-e-e . . . _

Grabbing four mugs from the cupboard, silently telling his hands to stop shaking, he startled when he heard Face's voice directly behind him.

"Want some help serving it up?"

Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, Murdock turned and shoved the four cups at his friend. "Sure. Ya wanna take care o' pourin' th' coffee? 'N' I'll dish up th' pie."

_Prob'ly spill coffee all over myself th' way my hands are. Course, don' know if it's much better, me tryin' t' use a knife right now. _

Face scooped the cups into his hands, barely missing dropping one on the floor. "Whoa! Careful there, buddy!"

The pilot saw the Colonel shoot a sharp glance their direction at the cautionary words. "Everything alright out there?"

Murdock silently appealed to Face.

_Please don' tell 'im. _

Face's eyes were on Murdock's as he answered with a cheerfulness that didn't match his expression. "Nothing we can't handle."

The pilot gave the con man a weak grateful smile. "Thanks," he whispered. His friend nodded grimly. The Lieutenant's eyes scrutinized Murdock's face before he went to retrieve the pot from the coffee maker.

_Guess I blew it. He's wonderin' if he can trust me t' get through th' resta t'night 'n' t'morrow without my meds. _

"So . . . what kinda pie d' ya'll want? I got pecan, sweet potata, apple, punkin . . . your choice . . . they're all fresh . . . made from th' finest stuff . . . Momma's best recipes . . . " Murdock felt like he was babbling just to ward off suspicion. He let his voice trail off and clamped his mouth shut.

"What you goin' on 'bout, fool?" B. A. grumbled from his armchair.

Face cut in before the pilot could think of an answer. "He just needs to know what kind of pie you and Hannibal want. It would be a shame for him to cut up all of the pies if he doesn't have to. Right, buddy?"

The con man nudged him gently with his elbow. Murdock swallowed and nodded, glancing at his friend and noting his strained smile.

_Hold it t'gether, H. M. _

"I'm okay, Faceman, I'm okay," he whispered. "Trus' me, I'm gonna be fine."

"Sweet potato an' apple sounds good ta me." B. A.'s voice sounded like it always did when the Colonel made him stop threatening to cause Murdock bodily injury for one reason or another.

_Hann'bal musta gave 'im 'the look.' _

Which meant he wasn't fooling Hannibal at all. Nobody would act naturally around him the rest of the night for concern they might trigger something.

"Colonel, what'll you have? Don' worry 'bout havin' somethin' other'n sweet potata 'r apple. I don' mind cuttin' inta 'nother . . . " Hannibal's eyes pierced him, then relaxed.

"I don't mind having a piece of that apple pie." Murdock noticed the Colonel look at B. A. as he answered.

The pilot busied himself by taking out a sharp knife from the wooden knife block and setting it on the countertop. He couldn't help but see Face's eyes following his movements as he poured coffee into the four cups on the table.

_Hold it t'gether . . . you've held it t'gether for this long 'n' they ain' noticed . . . least not much anyway . . . maybe a song'll keep me steady . . . _

He pursed his lips as he removed plastic wrap from the tops of the sweet potato and apple pies. Whistling the first Christmas song that came into his mind, he noticed Face tense slightly.

_What's th' problem now? All I'm doin' is whistlin' . . . _

"'White Christmas,' buddy? Why don't we sing something else . . . together?" Face's voice was hesitant. "And I wouldn't mind having a piece of that sweet potato pie. I've never had that before. Is it any good?"

Silencing his whistling, Murdock slowly cut the apple pie into fourths. The kitchen light over the sink glinted on the blade.

_White Christmas . . . oh . . . yeah, I guess that wasn' such a great choice o' songs . . . focus on 'is question . . . don' think o' . . . that . . . _

The wall behind the countertop melted into crumbling black dirt before his eyes, then became china blue tile again. He shuddered, realizing what was happening but not sure he could stop it without the meds to level out his anxiety.

_What was Face askin' me? . . . sweet potata pie . . . _

The knife continued to section up the pie almost like his hand had a mind of its own . . .

_Lefty? . . . That you? . . . Get outta my head! Yer gonna make me cut myself . . . Ferret knew how t' use a blade good, too . . . never cut t' kill . . . jus' t' hurt . . . _

He thought he felt the hairs on his legs tickling with some kind of movement. Fear of what he would see prevented him from looking down at his feet.

The wall tiles morphed into black earth again. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with panic.

_I look down, I'm gonna see rats 'r lizards . . . jus' like in th' pit in th' camp . . . spiders 'r fire ants crawlin' up my legs . . . bitin' me . . . 'n' I can' move . . . walls close in so tight . . . _

His breaths became short, anxiety-ridden attempts to avoid the dank urine- and feces-laden smell of the isolation pit.

Someone's hand landed solidly on his left shoulder. Startled, he lost his grip on the knife. It fell on the edge of the countertop and clattered to the floor.

"Easy, buddy, easy." Face stooped to pick up the knife. He spoke gently, reminding Murdock of his question. "What does it taste like? The sweet potato pie?"

With effort, the pilot focused on his friend's face. "Wha . . . ?"

"Tastes somethin' like punkin, only better . . . that is, if the fool followed Momma's recipe."

Murdock hadn't heard B. A. come out to the kitchen but as he turned toward the voice, he saw the concerned scowl. "Hey, crazy man. Why don'tcha let Faceman an' me serve up the food? You been workin' pretty hard for two days. Go rest."

B. A. squared his shoulders and crossed his arms, pulling himself up to his most impressive, threatening pose.

_He ain' gonna take no for an answer. _

Glancing in turn from Face to B. A. and out at the Colonel, the pilot noticed an uneasiness among them that he could only attribute to something he did or said. He couldn't remember what that was but the tension was definitely there.

Face shot a look of gratitude at the black man before urging in a soothing voice, "That's sounds like a good idea. It's our turn to serve you. Just let me know what kind of pie you want and I'll get it for you."

Murdock was still trying to figure out what he had done to make them suspicious. "Pie? Oh . . . pecan . . . I guess . . . " He stared dully at the knife in his friend's hand. "You're sure ya don' need me out here?"

"Didn' I tell ya ta go on out ta the livin' room an' put your feet up? Ain' gonna tell ya twice, fool." B. A. turned away to unwrap the pecan pie but not before the pilot saw the scrutinizing look the black man gave him.

"You heard him. Now go on." The con man gave his shoulder a soft nudge, directing him to the living room.

As he forced himself to move, he heard Face click on the radio in the kitchen and twist the dial past static to a station playing Christmas music. The strains of 'Jingle Bell Rock' followed him to the couch. If he wasn't so confused and shaky, he might have danced his way to his seat and sang along as he did.

_But that wouldn' convince th' Colonel I got it under control . . . 'n' I do . . . I think I do . . . I hope I do . . . _


	8. Chapter 8

What Better Time To Remember?

Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.

Chapter 8

Once at the couch, Murdock sank into the cushions and avoided Hannibal's stare by gazing at the Christmas tree.

_'N' I know Hann'bal's watchin' me, tryin' t' look inside my head . . . wantin' t' know if he's got a problem on 'is hands . . . look at th' tree . . . let 'im stare all he wants to . . . "He knows when you've been bad 'r good so be good for goodness sake" . . . _

The tune in his head faded away as he focused on the decorated tree. He wondered if he looked hard enough he could see where the Contessa left her red garter like Face claimed she had. It was difficult sitting in one place when his entire body twitched inside with anxiety.

"Here you go, buddy." Face appeared before him, holding out a dessert plate and a cup of coffee. The con man smiled as Murdock absently took them. Had that much time gone by already?

Glancing around, he saw that both B. A. and the Colonel had their dessert and cups.

_When'd that happen? _

Face retreated to the kitchen to retrieve his pie and coffee. When he returned, he sat at the opposite end of the couch.

For several minutes none of them spoke as they ate their pie and sipped at the hot mugs of coffee. Every once in a while Murdock would catch one of the three men glancing at him, then at the others.

_Least th' coffee'll keep me 'wake so I don' have that dream 'gain 'bout Chuck. 'N' I can say it's 'cause I wanna stay up 'n' see if Santa comes t' visit. _

Murdock chanced a look at B. A. The black man was obviously enjoying the two larger pieces of pie he had on his plate. B. A. nodded at him and mumbled, "Ya did Momma's recipes good. _Almost_ like she woulda made 'em."

The blush crept up his neck and into his cheeks as he nodded his thanks. It was rare praise. Ordinarily he might have done something like requesting a tape recording of the statement so he could play it again and again. If he said anything, it might cause unnecessary tension. The atmosphere was uncomfortable enough without that.

B. A. noticed the difference. Peering at the pilot suspiciously, he swallowed another bite and frowned. "Ya didn' put no secret stuff in here, did ya?"

"No . . . nothin' but what Momma wrote down for me t' put in." Murdock slowly pushed a pecan around his plate for a second before scooping it up and eating it.

Hannibal placed his plate and cup beside his chair on the floor. Settling back in the chair, he looked thoughtfully at the pilot. Murdock locked eyes with him and tried to keep his gaze as steady and calm as he could manage.

It wasn't easy when it felt like the inside of his head was buzzing like a swarm of angry hornets after their nest was kicked. And the internal turmoil was sending electric jolts of anxiety through the rest of his body.

"I think . . . " Hannibal began, still searching Murdock's deadpan expression. "I think we should make our yearly Christmas toasts and then head to bed."

Murdock glanced at his best friend, raising his eyebrows as he did. Face shook his head. Just a brief back and forth but it was enough to give the pilot the message that the con man was waiting for a better moment to let Hannibal and B. A. know their plans.

_He don' think they're gonna go 'long with it . . . but it's kinda our tradition . . . did I screw it up that bad?_

"Good idea, Colonel. I'll get the glasses if Murdock wants to retrieve the bottle from the rack and the corkscrew from the drawer." Face was already pointedly staring at the Captain and gesturing with his head toward the kitchen. He waited until the pilot was on his feet and moving before he walked out to the cupboard to retrieve the wine glasses.

Feeling the scrutiny of the two men, Murdock straightened to his full height and made himself stroll casually to the wine rack.

"Which one, oh Facial One? There's three 'r four bottles here." He hoped Face would take the hint and come over so he could talk to him without the others hearing so much of their conversation.

"What did the Contessa leave us?" The con man appeared at his left side and made a show of lifting each bottle from the rack to peer at its label.

"Ya still gonna ask him? Ya still wanna wait up for Santa like a'ways, don'tcha?" Murdock kept his voice low.

"Of course I do! I figured a little wine will relax him so he'll be more inclined to say yes." Face matched the pilot's whisper. Raising his voice and tapping his forefinger on the bottle he held in his hand, the con man said, "She told me I could have my choice of anything in her collection. Here's a 1927 Taylor Fladgate Vintage Port I think will do nicely."

"Looks expensive." Murdock momentarily forgot about his questions and reached for it.

Face smiled and backed away with the wine. "Only about nine hundred dollars a bottle."

The pilot drew back and whistled long and low, instantly stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Ya sure the Contessa won' min' us drinkin' somethin' so 'xpensive?"

"Oh, she won't mind . . . she won't mind at all." The con man had a distant look in his eyes and a contented smile as he said it. Murdock got the idea the cost of the wine was more than paid for by the companionship his buddy provided to the mysterious Contessa when she was stateside.

Face turned his attention back to his friend. Keeping his voice soft, he added, "Besides, this vintage port is so fine Hannibal will be sure to grant any request we make. I'll handle pouring this." Cradling the bottle in both hands, he motioned with his head at the wine glasses on the kitchen table where he had set them. "If you wouldn't mind bringing the glasses and the corkscrew . . . "

Without another word he led the way out to the living room and presented the bottle to Hannibal, showing him the label with a slight bow. "Does monsieur approve?" he crooned with the finesse of a French waiter.

The Colonel smirked as he took a puff from his cigar. "_Nice_, kid. Having the Contessa as a friend certainly has its benefits, doesn't it?"

"Colonel." Murdock gave Hannibal his glass, mentally scolding his hands to stop trembling. The older man sharply glanced up at him as he took it.

Before the Colonel could say anything, Face uncorked the bottle and moved the pilot out of the way to pour the port into his CO's glass.

"There we go." Face moved on to serve B. A., Murdock following him like a lost puppy.

Pausing before the black man, the pilot offered him a wine glass and then stepped back to let the con man do his part. The Sergeant scowled at the glass in his hand and looked expectantly at the refrigerator in the kitchen.

"Now before you say you want milk instead, we have four very important toasts to drink to. So try to get into the spirit, B. A." Face said it with a smile and turned so Murdock couldn't see his expression.

Some message was passed between the two men. He was certain of it.

Scowling, B. A. held out his glass so Face could fill it.

_Th' big angry mudsucker gave in way too easy. _

"Yours next, buddy," the con man said as he set one of the two remaining glasses on the coffee table. Pouring, Face added, "Go ahead and take a seat. I've got this."

Murdock carefully lowered himself onto the couch. The way his hands were, he wasn't sure if he could sit down without spilling the contents of his glass.

His gaze was drawn to the deep burgundy in his glass. The tremor in his hand made the surface of the liquid ripple. He wasn't big on drinking wine. That was something his best friend did. Face was a connoisseur of the finer things in life, including nine hundred dollar bottles of vintage port.

_Me? I'm more a whiskey man. But ya don' toast with whiskey on Christmas Eve. _

He was suddenly aware Hannibal was speaking. Trying to redirect his focus, he heard the last part of what the Colonel said.

" . . . to another year of life, even if we had to dodge some bullets to live it. I'm glad I dodged them with you guys."

Hannibal, B. A. and Face raised their glasses. A second later, realizing they were waiting for him, looking at him intently, Murdock raised his.

"To life," Face murmured.

B. A. echoed him.

"To life," Murdock repeated, sipping the sweet liquid and seeing each of his friends do the same.

Face stood and reflected for a moment, staring into his glass. When he spoke, he gestured with his hand at the furnishings around them. "I propose a toast to the Contessa who has so graciously allowed us to enjoy this beach house and her hospitality."

Again, the four men raised their glasses and drank.

"B. A.?" Hannibal nodded to the Sergeant. "You're up."

Murdock frowned.

_Now why'd he do that? Don' he think I'm gonna be able t' think o' somethin'? _

B. A.'s toast was simple and straightforward. "To my Momma."

The pilot smiled in spite of himself. "Bein' Momma was th' one who let me use th' recipes she knew was your fav'rites . . . yeah, to Momma."

Hannibal and Face echoed the sentiment.

The Colonel turned his gaze on Murdock. "Captain?"

Now that all three men focused on him, the pilot wasn't sure what to say.

He swallowed heavily. His thoughts swirled around the war years and the men in the POW camp, those who had not been with them as they were moved from that camp and along the trail to the next one. He remembered Chuck Heller and Bruce Wilson who had been with them during the march and Luke Cassel and others. As soon as he was in the camp, he tried to befriend each POW just in case he had to be the one to tell their family members and other loved ones their last known status.

_'N' everyone o' them'd do th' same for me. One o' them'd tell Gramma, Grampa 'n' Cyndy if I'd died 'r . . . _

"Well, fool? Ya gonna keep us up all night waitin' for your toast?"

Face seemed to be comfortable with the dogtag and chain now that they had talked about it.

_Maybe . . . ? _

"I'm thinkin' . . . I'm thinkin' . . . " He swirled the port in his glass as he debated whether or not to do the toast he was thinking about.

He stole a look at Face. The con man's expression was untroubled.

"I . . . " He stopped and took a breath to steady himself. Rather than check the reactions he would get from the guys, he closed his eyes. "I propose a toast t' Chuck Heller 'n' his courage 'n' hope that someday he's gonna come home. That someday _all_ o' them'll be sent home."

The silence after his last words forced his eyes open again. Face and Hannibal were solemnly looking at each other like they had before, like they shared a secret that no one else in the room knew.

B. A. didn't notice. The Sergeant slowly nodded his approval. He was the first to raise his glass. With a voice that was nothing more than a low murmur, he said, "Ta the guys we left behind, 'specially Chuck Heller. Good toast, man."

"To Chuck and all of them." Face raised his glass and downed the rest of the port with two quick swallows. He grimaced as if the drink suddenly soured on him. The con man gave his CO a sharp glance that the pilot couldn't decipher.

I_s he mad at me 'gain? _

Hannibal paused, scanning Murdock's face before agreeing to the toast. "To Chuck Heller and all the others who haven't come home yet."

The Lieutenant picked up the bottle and poured himself another glass. Sitting down, he sipped at it while continuing to glare at Hannibal.

Again, Murdock got the idea the two of them were passing indecipherable messages between themselves.

B. A. shifted position and stood up. He set his half-empty glass on the coffee table and yawned. "Think I'm gonna turn in." He shot Murdock a warning look. "An' I 'spect ta be left alone ta wake up on my own in the mornin'. No jumpin' up an' down on the bed ta get me awake. Got that, fool?"

Murdock shuddered. He knew what the Sergeant was talking about.

_Four in th' mornin' was kinda early t' try 'n' wake th' big mudsucker up. _

The memory of what happened the last Christmas, B. A. waking disoriented and defending himself against attack, the broken wrist from being tossed off the bed and landing wrong . . .

_Yeah, maybe shouldn't o' stood over 'im 'n' used his bed for a trampoline . . . not somethin' I wanna relive . . . _

Murdock resisted the urge to rub his wrist. Instead, he shrugged and took another sip of port. He was surprised when B. A. gave Hannibal a puzzled glance.

_Can' have th' Big Guy all worried 'bout me. _

"I'll letcha sleep. I promise. Won' hear a single peep outta me 'til ya wake up." Raising his hand as if to surrender, he forced a smile. He was grateful when B. A. snorted and moved off toward his temporary bedroom.

"Sleep tight . . . don' let th' bed bugs bite, Big Guy," Murdock called after him in a singsong voice. He didn't know why he did that. Maybe he wanted to show everyone he was okay. There was a sullen mumbling response before the bedroom door shut.

The Colonel nodded in the direction of the hallway. Setting his glass down, he moved past them, patting each man on his back in turn. "Shall we, gentlemen? It's been a long day. Time to turn in."

Face coughed to get Hannibal's attention. The con man nudged Murdock and mouthed, _Let me do the talking_.

The pilot took a step back to stand behind his friend. He whispered in Face's ear, "It's all yours, muchacho." Putting one hand behind his back, he crossed his fingers.

"Yes, kid?" Hannibal narrowed his eyes as he scanned the two of them.

"Think it'd be alright if Murdock and I threw our sleeping bags down on the floor out here? You know we do that every Christmas."

The Colonel locked eyes with the con man. Again, Murdock got the idea the two communicated something without saying a word.

After several seconds, Hannibal nodded. "Stay alert, Lieutenant." Looking at the pilot, he added, "You don't want to miss Santa Claus when he visits."

_He don' mean that. He wants Face t' watch me 'n' keep me from losin' it. But at least he ain' gonna stop us from campin' out here 'n' waitin' for Christmas mornin'. _

The Colonel gave both of them a final scrutinizing glance and walked down the hallway to his room.

Face slapped Murdock on the back. "There you go. Let's get our stuff, set out those cookies and milk and turn on the Christmas lights."

"Thanks, Faceman. This's gonna be fun." The pilot uncrossed his fingers and punched the air with his fist. As much as he wanted to enjoy the magic of the night, he knew it was going to be difficult to hold back the bad dream if he should fall asleep.

_'N' what'll happen then? _


	9. Chapter 9

What Better Time To Remember?

Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.

Chapter 9

Face rolled over on his back in his sleeping bag and crooked his elbow to pillow his head. Even after his friend and he downed another bottle of wine while listening to Christmas music and quietly talking, he could not close his eyes.

Two feet to his right, Murdock's gentle steady breaths told him the pilot had finally succumbed to sleep.

He twisted his head to that side to gaze at his friend's face. He grimaced at the telltale signs of the pilot's self-imposed sleep deprivation. The smudges under both eyes were so dark, the con man figured Murdock would remain dead to the world for several hours.

But you never could tell with Murdock. He woke up before anyone else most of the time unless he was injured or very sick. And the pilot seemed to endure long hours without sleep a lot better than the rest of them.

This time was a little different. The dark circles were more pronounced and the pilot wasn't taking his anti-anxiety meds. Face cursed himself again for not noticing the signs sooner.

_At least hopefully we won't have to keep B. A. from killing him for waking him up early. Now if only his nightmares leave him alone. _

Murdock lay facing his friend and curled up in the position he was in when his words began to slur with slightly drunken drowsiness. His face, softly illuminated by the brightly colored tree lights, was calm for the first time in a few days.

The Lieutenant was sure that if Billy really existed, the dog snoozed too, tucked close to Murdock's belly. The other man had one arm flung out in front of him as if hugging something or someone loosely to himself.

_It would've been nice to grow up owning a dog, even an imaginary one. Hell, it would've been nice to have parents . . . or grandparents . . . that loved me as much as my buddy was loved . . . _

Face knew he should get some rest but the past two hours of conversation gave him a lot to think about.

Turning his head to stare up at the ceiling, the con man raised his hand to touch the dog tag and chain around his neck. Murdock had almost convinced him that Heller's second imprisonment as a POW was not his fault and that he had nothing to feel guilty for. _Almost. _

The dogtag and chain seemed to burn his neck with what it represented. It was like having to wear a scarlet letter telling the world of his . . . what? . . . it wasn't a crime or sin because it wasn't intentional . . . but it wasn't just a mistake either . . . his sloppy accident with the punji stake trap and the resulting infection cost a man his freedom, his identity and his sanity. But he promised Murdock and for Murdock's sake, he would wear the dogtag and remember.

He wondered if Hannibal would ever give them the go-ahead to make a trip to see Chuck Heller. It took everything in him to prevent himself from disobeying the Colonel's direct order and telling Murdock that the man who had saved his own and Wilson's lives was alive but not well.

From Murdock's slight frown during that part of their conversation, Face knew the pilot sensed something wasn't right.

_And then there's his dream. How can he be so sure Heller's alive? _

But then Murdock was constantly surprising him with his intuition about things.

Eventually Face steered the conversation into the Christmas memories Murdock had of his Texas home. He figured if those memories were the last things the pilot talked about, perhaps his dreams would remain undisturbed.

_The thing is, all those images he planted in my brain of his grandparents and their Christmas traditions are keeping me awake. _

He was glad the room was too dark for his friend to see his wistful expression as Murdock remembered the holiday seasons he enjoyed as he grew up.

Sure, Face had Father Maghill and the sisters at the orphanage to help him appreciate the spiritual significance of the season but it wasn't like what Murdock described. It wasn't the same as helping to bake cookies and decorate the tree . . . making and buying presents for loved ones . . . being in Christmas programs with grandparents lovingly watching from the front row seats . . .

He wearily shook his head and forced his eyes closed. He had to be ready when Murdock woke. If it was a nightmare that woke his friend, Face knew he would instantly hear him. He was practiced enough in what to do to gently bring the pilot back to reality. If it was a natural waking before anyone else was up and moving, Face had to distract Murdock long enough to allow the others to get their rest.

Focusing on the strains of 'Silent Night' coming from the kitchen radio, he slowly relaxed every muscle in his body.

_Listen to the music . . . think of the words . . . focus on the words . . . _

He woke suddenly, his hand already reaching for the Colt pistol under his pillow. As his fingers curled around the stock of the weapon and he carefully drew it from its hiding place, he let his eyes open to slits.

Pretending to shift restlessly, he squinted beside him and found Murdock still sleeping. The pilot's arm twitched, gathering his invisible dog even closer to him. A small moan escaped his lips before he fell into a deeper sleep once again.

_Does he sense danger? Or is he having a bad dream? _

A wooden floorboard creaked slightly and Face thought he heard a swallowing sound. Warily, the con man peered around the room through narrowed eyes until he found the source of the noises.

A solidly built figure bent over the coffee table where the two friends placed the plate of cookies and glass of milk. As Face opened his eyes wider, bewildered at what he saw, he noted the red long-sleeved shirt and white-trimmed red cap the intruder wore. There were no other similarities to Santa Claus than that. Unless Santa wore Army-issue camouflage pants and red tennis shoes to match his shirt.

Face sat up, slowly so as not to disturb Murdock's sleep. "B. A.?" he murmured.

The Sergeant turned toward him, scowling, and put a beefy finger to his lips. Casting a concerned look at the pilot, he whispered, "Keep it down. Now he's finally asleep, ya wanna wake him?"

"What are you doing?" Face matched B. A.'s whisper.

"Tradition." The black man downed the milk and swiped his mouth with his sleeve as he set the glass back on the table.

The con man stared at him for a few seconds, trying to understand.

Face knew each Christmas Murdock woke him in the morning, excited to show him the empty plate and glass.

"_See, Faceman? I bet if we go outside 'n' look real close, we'll see paw prints from Santa's dog team."_

And B. A. always snorted and fumed, "Crazy fool."

It was the same each year. Face always figured Murdock drank the milk and finished off the cookies himself to perpetuate the story. In a way, the con man wanted the story to live on, too. He didn't care how it happened. He just knew it did.

Suddenly the Lieutenant understood.

"You mean . . . ?"

Before the con man could say any more, B. A. jerked his head in the direction of the pilot. "Don't wake 'im up," he mouthed, a frown creasing his forehead. Stuffing the last cookie in his mouth, the Sergeant pointed at Face in warning.

As soon as he chewed and swallowed, B. A. muttered, "Ya let 'im know _anythin'_ about this an' I'll make ya _eat_ that tree. Ya understand?" His finger punctuated every other word and especially the word 'eat.'

The con man gave him a smile and nod. "No problem . . . " As B. A. stalked back to his bedroom, Face added, " . . . Santa."

The Sergeant paused at his bedroom door and looked back at the sleeping man. A cloud passed over his face. His eyes pierced those of the Lieutenant. "If he wakes up an' ya need help, ya call. Okay?"

He didn't need to tell Face what he thought might happen that would require his brute strength.

Again the con man nodded. B. A. disappeared, quietly closing the door behind him.

Face eased himself back into his sleeping bag and smirked. Rethinking the whole scene, he was sure that, should B. A. ever threaten him with bodily harm, he could use the information somehow as leverage.

Several minutes passed. The wind picked up and the sound of waves on the beach became more noticeable.

_Forget the real Santa Claus coming here by way of dog sled. The way those waves sound, he'll be surfing to shore. _

A loose board tapped rhythmically in the wind. The pilot's mouth curled in a wince, then relaxed. The con man waited to see if his friend reacted to the sound again and was satisfied when he sighed softly and tightened his hold on Billy.

Noises like that sometimes triggered Murdock's nightmares. Face wasn't sure if it was because it sounded too much like the tap code they used in the POW camp or more like the distant pop of gunfire.

In any case, he decided to turn on his side so he would know almost immediately if his friend was becoming restless. It was better to be vigilant than to let a bad dream escalate into an even worse situation.

oooooo

"_Help . . . me . . . help . . . "_

_The dank rich earth smell of the jungle assailed his senses. One thing was sure. He wasn't in the sky, flying his chopper to a dust-off or extraction._

_Was I shot down?_

"_Help . . . help me . . . Murdock . . . "_

_There it was again. He tried to determine where the rasping voice was coming from but the canopy overhead shut out the light of the stars and the moon. In this hell hole of a country maybe they, as well as his chopper, had been shot down out of the sky._

_My chopper . . . th' camp . . . _

_He strained to remember and, with a jolt of awareness, recognized the voice . . . _

_Chuck? Chuck . . . is that you? Where are ya? _

oooooo

Face's eyes snapped back open at the first slurred word coming from the man beside him. He had drifted into a light state of sleep without meaning to.

"Sh . . . ck . . . sh . . . ck . . . 'sss 'at ooo . . . " The rest of the mumbled gibberish faded away as the con man struggled out of his sleeping bag, readying himself to help, keeping his eyes on his friend's anguished expression.

oooooo

"_I'm here . . . they got me 'n' they won' let me go . . . help . . . ya gotta help me . . . "_

_He had to help Heller. The man's voice was urgent._

_The pilot knew he had to figure out where they were before he could go to Chuck's rescue. The NVA soldiers had left him laying on his side. That much Murdock could tell. The second thing he realized shortly after that was his inability to move his legs very well. One of his arms was numb from his shoulder to the tip of his fingers. The other was underneath him. _

_He wasn't sure where the enemy was. If he struggled, would he receive a beating in response?_

_I gotta try. For Chuck's sake, I gotta . . . _

oooooo

Face saw the pilot's extended hand twitching. He knelt beside Murdock, knowing he shouldn't touch the man while he was facing off invisible demons.

_But I can talk to him, remind him that Nam is an ocean and a lifetime away. _

"Murdock . . . buddy . . . "

oooooo

_Kicking against the loose restraints, he found his ankles were not bound as he originally thought. It was more like he was cocooned from his feet up to his waist._

_What th' hell's goin' on? I'm comin', Chuck . . . _

_Rolling onto his back, he tried to move his arms. Both were numb._

_Did they jus' cut me loose from th' ropes? I don' r'member . . . _

oooooo

Face scuttled farther out of reach when the pilot kicked away the encasing sleeping bag and rolled on his back. Murdock's eyes were still closed.

"Come on, buddy . . . listen to me . . . "

He realized with some concern that Murdock seemed unable to move his arms. One, the arm that had held the invisible dog, was draped limply across his ribcage. It was too much like the effect the ropes had on those who the NVA interrogator used them on. Guys who had their elbows and wrists cinched together behind their backs and were hung like that from a hook couldn't use their arms for hours, sometimes days, after they were returned to their huts.

_His arms probably fell asleep from the position they were in but he isn't going to know that. He's going to think . . . _

Face made a quick decision. Swinging one leg over Murdock's waist, he straddled him and pinned his upper arms down with his lower legs. Holding the pilot's face firmly between his hands, he spoke quickly, urgently, keeping his head away unless his friend should free himself and try to butt heads with him or bite. It was a risky move but once Murdock regained the use of his arms, it would be more difficult to restrain him and make him listen.

"Murdock . . . buddy . . . we're not in the camp . . . we're not in Nam . . . listen to me . . . it's Face . . . remember me?"

oooooo

"_Murdock . . . help me . . . " The voice changed slightly. It sounded more like Face than Chuck._

_Where are ya, Chuck? . . . I can' move . . . where . . . are . . . ya . . . _

_He couldn't move his head now. Something held it in place. That never meant a good thing. Panicking, he yelled as loudly as he could. _

_Lemme go! Lemme go!_

_Did they paralyze me? Did they beat me so bad I won' ever move 'gain?_

_He thought he saw a glimmer of light to his left side. Peering through the gloom of the jungle at it, he realized it was a small window. The voice was coming from behind the door. He was sure of it._

_It didn't make sense, a door in the jungle of Vietnam, but there it was. _


	10. Chapter 10

What Better Time To Remember?

Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.

Chapter 10

Face didn't see any indication his friend recognized where he was or who was speaking to him.

The loud garbled attempts to talk told the con man Murdock had not yet awoken. He couldn't understand a word of what the pilot was trying to say so he resorted to the thing he knew had worked in the past.

"Come on, buddy. It's a dream. You're back in the States. The war is over." He kept repeating the same words over and over, forcing his tone to remain calm and soothing.

If he raised his voice, it would sound too much like the NVA interrogators and guards. It would be even more difficult to help Murdock escape his dream.

He was feeling anything but calm.

Someone clicked on a light. Hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway.

_Thank God! _

"B. A.? I'm probably going to need that help right about now." Face muttered as the pilot gasped out an anguished breath.

_What took you guys? _

"Keep talking to him, kid," Hannibal encouraged as he appeared behind him and knelt over Murdock's legs to hold him down.

"Ya need help?" B. A. was on his knees near the pilot's head. The Lieutenant kept his hold on his friend's face and removed his knees from the man's upper arms. Once they were free, the Sergeant pulled Murdock's arms above his head and held them down at the elbows.

The con man breathed out a frustrated sigh and grumbled, "Do I need _help_? What does it _look_ like to you?"

"Looks like we're in for a long night." B. A. muttered as Murdock tensed against his hold.

oooooo

_Voices . . . voices surrounded him even as he fought to free himself from the paralysis that kept him from helping Chuck._

_The length of his arms prickled as sensation returned to them. He still couldn't move them. Something held them firmly in place._

_He stared at the light streaming through the window of the jungle door. _

"_Help me . . . Help . . . "_

_Even though Chuck's voice was loudest among the cacophony of jungle noises and other voices around him, he thought he could pick out B. A., Face and Hannibal talking to him or to each other. He didn't know which. It wasn't important right now._

_I've gotta be in th' camp. Th' guards must o' almost killed me this time 'n' th' guys're tendin' t' my injuries. 'N' now th' guards've got Chuck._

_He struggled even more against whoever was holding him, then froze when a manic scream came from behind the door._

_I gotta help 'im . . . lemme go . . . _

oooooo

Face shook his head at B. A.'s observation. "He was fine until the wind came up. The Contessa needs to get a handyman here to make some repairs." He gestured with his head at the banging the loose board was making.

"Crazy man needs ta take his meds like he's s'posed to," B. A. grunted in response.

"Talk to him, Face." Hannibal gritted his teeth as Murdock tried to kick at him.

The pilot suddenly stopped moving and whimpered something Face couldn't make out. A tear trickled down from Murdock's eye and pooled on the con man's left thumb where he held his face. He knew his friend didn't cry unless something seriously bad was happening. And he didn't give up so easily.

The thought of what nightmare the pilot was reliving to make him do that made the con man sick inside.

"Please, buddy. Just wake up . . . you'll see . . . nothing's going to hurt you . . . "

oooooo

_Out of his peripheral vision, a shadow moved in front of the door, temporarily blocking the light. Murdock squinted at the darkened form. Something about the shadow was familiar._

_The unidentified person dug in his pocket. The light shone on the man's face as he held up a key and bent to unlock the door._

_Murdock sucked in a sharp breath of recognition. _

"_Hann'bal? No . . . that don' make sense . . . he ain' a guard . . . "_

_His surroundings melted before his eyes. He no longer heard the sounds associated with the jungle or smelled the earthy odors around him. The door changed until it became a door with a number, a reinforced window and a lock that kept people in . . . one of several in a hallway with a centrally located nurse's desk . . . and Hannibal's key fit perfectly in the lock. Murdock didn't want to know what the room behind the door looked like. He had a feeling he knew all too well._

_It's like my room at th' VA. Is that it? Chuck's in a VA somewhere? But this is a dream, ain' it?_

_If it was, it was a dream that told him what secret Hannibal and Face were keeping from him. That bit of withheld information made the gifts he gave the guys unnecessary. That was, if it wasn't just a dream and Hannibal already knew that Chuck Heller was alive and in the States._

The answer to his unspoken question about Chuck woke him all the way and made him open his eyes.

oooooo

Face heard Hannibal's order and the stress in the older man's voice. He checked his anger but his thoughts churned with what had caused this to begin with.

_Maybe if you'd been honest with us, Colonel, Murdock wouldn't be having this nightmare. _

It was what Face wanted to say but for now, he directed his attention to his friend who had just opened his haunted eyes.""Buddy? Are you with us?" Face didn't like the vacant distant look in his friend's eyes. Murdock might still be reliving whatever wartime nightmare he wrestled with in his dream. If that was the case, he likely would not see his friends for who they were, especially since they were preventing him from moving.

Releasing Murdock's head, Face shifted his body so he wasn't straddling the pilot. He glanced back at his CO and murmured, "He isn't struggling anymore but I can't be sure he knows where he is yet."

"Keep talking, kid. You're doing good." Hannibal didn't seem ready to trust that the pilot was ready to be released from the holds B. A. and he had on his arms and legs.

The con man shook his head in frustration at the Colonel's order. He felt tempted again to lash out at Hannibal for his treatment of the information regarding Heller.

_It won't do any good. When Hannibal decides something, you can't tell him it's a bad idea. _

When Face gazed down at his friend once more, he was encouraged to see recognition begin to flicker in the pilot's eyes. There was something else, too, something a bit unsettling.

"I think you can let him go now, guys." Face sensed rather than saw the two men back away from their positions and remain kneeling close by the pilot's head and feet. His full attention was on the rapidly changing mood of his best friend. Face felt waves of explosive anger emanating from him.

_What the hell? Why's he so mad? _

He tried to defuse the situation with what he hoped were words that would distract Murdock from whatever was upsetting him. "You fell asleep. We were waiting for Santa to arrive, remember?" Face patted the pilot on his shoulder but Murdock impatiently and silently shoved the hand away. "You had me worried there for a while, buddy. Was it the same dream?"

The pilot nodded, his mouth drawn in a tight line, his hostile glare directed at the Colonel. He pulled himself into a sitting position, then boosted himself to his feet. Wobbling for a second, Murdock waited for the Colonel to stand up before speaking.

Not knowing what to expect, B. A. and Face clambered to their feet, too, their gaze drifting from the Colonel to the enraged Captain. From their postures, the con man could almost imagine them as two gunfighters facing each other in a dusty street for a showdown.

In a husky voice filled with cold fury, the pilot verbally attacked Hannibal. "Why didn' ya _tell _me Chuck Heller got sent back t' th' States? All this time thinkin' . . . "

He had to swallow before he could finish. His voice increased in volume. His muscles tensed, beginning with the fists he clenched as he spoke. "All this time thinkin' he was prob'ly still in Nam . . . dead . . . or 'live but bein' kept prisoner . . . other'n my dream, I didn' know for sure _what'd_ happened t' him . . . 'n' _you _. . . _you knew!_" The last words were spat out with such venom that even Hannibal drew back a few inches.

"What're ya talkin' 'bout, fool?" B. A. took a step, ready to wrestle Murdock to the floor if he should follow through with a physical attack on their CO. Confused, he glanced at the Colonel. "What's he talkin' 'bout, man?"

Face stared at Hannibal in surprise. "I . . . I didn't say anything," he stammered as the Colonel scrutinized him with icy eyes.

"No . . . like a bestest buddy, ya didn', did ya?" Murdock's sarcasm pierced Face deeply. The pilot's gaze hadn't left the older man's stony expression but the words found their mark. The con man's cheeks flushed with shame and resentment.

_Tell him now, Hannibal. Now would be a very good time to take the blame. _

"Didn't say what?" B. A. took another step toward Murdock. He hesitated, unsure of what the pilot intended to do. "What's he talkin' 'bout, Colonel?"

Face watched as Hannibal waved the Sergeant back, then crossed his arms defensively. "Stand down, B. A."

"Sorry, Big Guy. Guess stuff like that's class'fied intel only Colonels 'n' Lieutenants get t' know. Not crazies like me 'r Sergeants like you." The pilot's expression matched his mocking tone. He reached up to tug at the dog tag, almost breaking its chain as he did. "Fact is, B. A., these don' mean much o' anythin' t' th' Colonel here b'cause he already knows somethin' we don'. Chuck Heller's safe 'n' sound in a VA hospital somewhere stateside. Ain' that right, Colonel?" He dropped the chain to once again clench his fists at his sides.

The rectangular dog tag gleamed silver against the black material of Murdock's T-shirt. The Lieutenant couldn't help but think of the irony of the slogan printed on the front: "I'm an American Tragedy."

_So is Chuck . . . so are we all . . . _

But there was no time for philosophy. The situation was escalating rapidly.

The older man kept his gaze on Murdock as he nodded curtly in reply. Even though he remained silent, Face could see the muscles in Hannibal's jaw tighten as if he was holding back an angry response.

Murdock took a step toward the Colonel, then another. Only B. A.'s firm grip on the pilot's forearm kept him from moving farther.

"Don't," the Sergeant growled. "Hear the man out, fool. There's gotta be a good reason Hannibal didn' tell us."

Face took a breath and slowly exhaled. B. A. may not have known what was going on but he wasn't about to see Murdock take on Hannibal in a fist fight.

The pilot viciously tugged his arm away and closed the distance between the Colonel and himself. The two inches of height advantage he had over Hannibal made Murdock seem even more threatening. When he spoke, his voice hinted of the cold menace behind his question. "Where? Where d' they got 'im?"

The two men were eye to eye, neither willing to be the first to glance away. Face recognized the smoldering rage in his friend's glare.

_Now's the time to make it right, Hannibal. Tell him. Tell all of us. _

"You don't need to know."

There was a second of stunned silence before all hell broke loose.


End file.
